


Honesty

by EliseMarie314



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Animal Deaths, Brief reference to Stillbirth, Character Deaths, F/M, Jonsa romance, Pregnancy, Season 6 Compliant, Sibling Incest, They're not siblings though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 58,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliseMarie314/pseuds/EliseMarie314
Summary: After the battle for Winterfell, Jon and Sansa have to make it their home again. They have to make themselves whole first.AKA innocent bed sharing becomes something more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have read some absolutely amazing ASOIAF fanfictions since season 6 ended, I have written this completely in the TV universe but certain book elements may creep in because my mind blurs sometimes. This is also the first thing I’ve written in over two years and, well, I think it shows, but here it is anyway. This started simply, it was Jon/Sansa romance. Simples. Then Bran wanted to come home. Then Arya. Then Tormund wanted to have a voice. Then Tyrion had something to say. Then I realized how it ended and worried that I couldn’t write it. But I found a way and brought in the wights. Most other characters are purely background.

The Second Night After the Battle

It was past dark out. As far North as she was, it was barely ever light during the daytime. Despite everything, it was something she still had unexpected good memories of from her time in King’s Landing and then the Vale – light and warmth. Not that she had a dislike for the dark and cold, no, far from it. In fact since the first moment that Sansa Stark, seated atop a horse had crossed in to the North with Lord Baelish, she had felt the cold creep into her clothes, past her skin and on through her bones and she had welcomed it. She was of the North, after all and her time spent South had awakened that knowledge within her. Even when she had been home the last time, as a Bolton Bride, Winterfell and the North had still felt welcoming. Something had still felt powerful to her inside the walls of her home. Perhaps it was that something that had kept her going through the pain and tears the Boltons brought her. They were gone now. Winterfell was hers once more. There would be no more pain or tears in the safety of her home.

The Battle of the Bastards had been two days ago and the Knights of the Vale were still present, occupying Winterfell lands with Lord Baelish also still present. In those two days, Sansa had managed to avoid Lord Littlefinger as much as possible. Of course, she had been born within these walls and knew everything about every passageway despite the sacking and rebuilding. Until he had stumbled onto her in the Godswood, the one place he would know to find her of course. No matter, she thought, shaking all thoughts of him from her mind. No one would find her where she was going and especially not at this late hour. She could not sleep. Being safe and warm at home did not bring her enough comfort to help her sleep. The rooms were filled with Stark loyalists, men and women who hours earlier had declared themselves for their new King in the North, Jon Snow. Sansa knew that she was safe. She was the only trueborn Stark in Winterfell. She believed the bannermen. She believed Jon. King Jon. A slight laugh escaped her lips at that thought as she glanced around her. No one was following her and no one seemed to have seen her as she crept down the long, dark passageway. Occasionally she heard a loud cheer, a raucous round of laughter from a group and she was aware that it was the Lords still drinking after Jon’s coronation.

Whilst all of the battle weary men seemed happy to drink, laugh, stay awake for hours, Sansa was exhausted and desperate for the peace that sleep brought. Sleep had barely brought Sansa Stark any peace since she had last worn that name. It was not about to change any time soon. Lighting a few candles as she passed, Sansa made her way through her family crypt and came upon that of her father. Like her Aunt Lyanna, Uncle Brandon and Grandfathers of old, Eddard Stark had his likeness in place on his crypt. It had probably been started before Theon had led his sacking. Gently Sansa ran a few fingers over the face of her father, thankful that she could not see his bones.

How decayed would they be after these years? Would flesh remain on them?

Banishing the thoughts from her mind, Sansa was reminded of a time when she would never have even had thoughts like those.

“Oh, father,” she sighed heavily and sadly. “We should never have left. I should never have had dreams of the South. Then you might still be here. You would never have let Joffrey… or the Boltons…” She still found it hard to speak his name. “Or Littlefinger. Would you have trusted any of them, father? Because you trusted me and I betrayed you.”

Abruptly, Sansa turned and left her father’s crypt. She could not bear to see his face any more. He was not the reason she had entered the crypts at such a late hour because she was not actually the only Stark in Winterfell. Only one step through the darkness was needed before Sansa could see the other Stark that had returned home with her. He was laid out on a table or bed of some-sort, it was too dark for Sansa to see much properly. Sheets covered him, presumably until someone could treat his body and prepare his bones for his crypt; a crypt that needed to be built. A crypt that would skip over without ever filling one for Ned’s first born. Robb’s bones were long since gone, thought Sansa sadly. Her fingers reached out for the coverings, almost with a mind of their own, but she snatched them back in time. Moving her candle along the body’s length, Sansa saw that the top of his head was uncovered and this time she did reach out to gently tangle and untangle his curls.

“Oh, Rickon,” she sobbed. It was her first true sob since she had jumped from the battlements with Theon. Maybe if she had remained a few days longer she would have been able to escape with Rickon. Or sway the Umbers to a different view. Maybe she could have saved him. She had not mourned Rickon after the battle, instead riding for Winterfell ahead of Lord Baelish, ignoring his protests and Sansa had got in to the keep to see Jon battering the Bastard Bolton. She still had not mourned Rickon, justice for the Bolton Bastard was more pressing and she had walked away from the dogs, leaving them to their feast and had still not mourned Rickon. Then there had been a night of fitful sleeping in the first clean room Jon had been able to find, “sod the others, Lady Stark,” were his words. Alone in a strange room she still had not mourned. The next morning, this morning, she had visited the Godswood, possibly hoping to mourn, she had not decided. All day she had been kept busy or kept herself busy. There were still more pressing matters than mourning. Maybe there was never a right time to mourn, not with Winter upon them.

“I remember you as a babe newborn.” She could not remember any of the others being that young anywhere near as clearly as she could remember Rickon. She remembered hearing her mother’s screams, how Lady Stark had batted away wet nurses, how her father had smiled at having a third son. She remembered Bran and Arya running around, all chubby and toddling, but she had no memory of them any younger than when Rickon was born. “Your face was all scrunched up and you had dark hair like father, eyes like mother and I.” The dark hair had fallen out, replaced with redder, Tully hair, but his eyes had remained unchanged. “Oh, how you screamed and cried. You were always screaming. Always red faced. You barely slept. I don’t remember the others being so loud.”

“I do.”

Sansa jumped, almost dropping her candle on to her baby brother with one hand and pulling a dagger out with her other hand. Her dagger hand relaxed immediately as she recognized the voice, which was good as she really had no idea how to use a dagger other than stab it towards an attacker. As she replaced the dagger, she spoke: “I was in quiet, private, prayer.” Her voice had hardened and the tears and sobs dried up.

Jon stepped out of the shadows, from deeper within the crypt. “I couldn’t sleep with all of that noise so went walking. I apologise.”

Of course, he had not followed her. She had accidentally followed him. “I am sorry. I am so very tired. How much, what did you hear?”

“That you loved him.”

Sansa could not remember when she had last told anyone that she loved them, when had she last loved someone? She was unsure, it was too long ago. Had Jon heard her talking to father?

There was a long silence until she finally broke it, her hand returned to Rickon’s curls. “He has hair like Robb’s. And you.”

“I shouldn’t have played into Bolton’s game,” he admitted and she looked up at him. His eyes were focused on Rickon but glazed as if not focused on anything and everything at the same time. “I lost too many by charging. And you were right,” he sighed, “Rickon was dead moons ago.”

“No,” she shook her head violently and tried to meet his eyes. Jon looked at her. “He was running to you. He knew, in those moments, that his brother loved him, was coming for him.” She looked back down at the curls. “I wish I’d felt that at some point. Just once.”

“Lord Baelish rescued you.”

“Lord Baelish doesn’t love me, he just wants to marry me.”

“The Sansa I grew up with believed those to be the same thing.”

“The Sansa you grew up with no longer exists.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I keep seeing sparks of her.” Their eyes met again and she met his smile halfway.

“It’s just you and I now, Jon.”

“Unless you marry Baelish.”

“Would you like me to?”

“Honestly?” he asked and she nodded. They had made a promise to each other as the snow fell and she meant to keep her word. “I don’t know the man. He brought us the Vale. I know of his duel with Uncle Brandon. But I will never stop you trying to be happy. If he could make you happy…?”

“Lord Baelish serves to only make himself happy. He wants to sit the Iron Throne. With me by his side apparently. But I don’t trust a word he says and I certainly do not want any kind of throne, especially the Iron Throne.” Her body ached at the bruises and broken ribs from the beatings Joffrey ordered in front of the damn Iron Throne. Looking at the crypts lining the wall, the different statues with names that she knew, she continued. “I just want to live here and ignore the Throne, the Lannisters, the Vale, everything else.”

“We need the Vale’s men.”

“But we cannot feed them. We cannot keep them warm now that winter has come. It’s best if they go home. We have enough men to keep Winterfell, do we not?”

“We do. But not the Wall.” Of course the Wall and the monsters Jon swore were coming.

“Does the Wall have food and warmth?”

“No.”

“Then thank them, prepare them and send them home.”

“Baelish strikes me as a man who’ll want something in return for the aid he provided.” She watched his face in the flickering candlelight, trying to see into his eyes. When she had betrayed father she had believed she was doing the right thing and everyone was punished for it. Her father, herself, Robb, her mother. Where even was Arya now? Her time with Joffrey and Cersei had shown her to hide her true thoughts, to guard her thoughts, words and actions. Could she truly un-guard herself to Jon? “Honesty, sweet Sansa.”

“Are you proposing I marry him after hearing that I do not wish to?” Even without her maidenhead, she was still just a commodity to be sold and bartered over.

“Your rightful place is right here and I do not wish to have Baelish remain.”

“Then send him on his way with the Vale knights. He may have the numbers, but we hold the North. He handed me over to the Boltons, sold me like a ship or a horse for breeding, to them and to their cruelty. The North remembers.”

“Aye, it does. A problem for spring perhaps?” Sansa sighed and felt him take her hand, pulling her away from the dead. “You said you were tired. You should sleep.” Her chambers were still not ready and she did not like the smell in the only room that was decent for her to sleep in.

“The nights are too long in Winter.”

He chuckled slightly. “With my terrors, all nights are too long.” Her mouth opened to ask him about his terrors, but they were at her temporary chamber. “There should be somewhere better for you to reside in on the morrow. Sweet dreams.”

Jon gave her a smile as he walked away and she silently opened the door to her chamber, tears welling in her eyes. She was scared of the dreams that would come.


	2. The Third Night After the Battle

The Third Night after the Battle

Jon had awoken before dawn. Although with winter upon them, dawn was travelling later and later each day and soon Northmen would be breaking their fast at noon. It was difficult to tell time when the nights got longer, but the moon was full and bright and far too high in the sky for it to be anywhere near dawn yet. Jon always awoke too early. He always remained awake until too late, but he used the time to be useful. Work was underway to fix everything that needed to be ready for winter in the castle. The gates were still being rebuilt. There were still bodies to burn. Bedding to wash. Food to store. People to rehome. Homes to rebuild. They would never find everyone that had died. Theon and the Ironborn had not been respectful and the Boltons had been less so. There was so much damage to the only place he could really call home.

The Wall had tried to be his home, but then Thorne, Olly and the others… How could the Wall ever be his home again after what his sworn brothers had done to him? No, Winterfell was his only home now. It had taken Sansa to make him see that. He altered his course slightly, wandering the castle with a hand on Longclaw, he was guarding and assessing, mentally noting anything that needed repairing once day was upon them. Whenever day started of course. Earlier that day, Jon and some men had managed to clear the way through to some of the original towers of Winterfell. The damage to the stairs must have occurred early on in the sacking, before the Boltons became Wardens. There were chambers covered in dust, but untouched by Bolton hands and Jon had worked mostly by himself to get the largest, fanciest clean room ready for Sansa to move into it. She deserved something clean from the Boltons. He had quickly found the room that had clearly been her marital room and had ordered everything burned without her knowledge. All of the furniture. All of his belongings and all of Sansa’s own clothing that remained. It was not even fit to be reused.

He himself had then taken the first chamber they had found for Sansa. It was small with barely any light, but that mattered not for a bastard boy of the Night’s Watch. And he barely slept anyway. In sleep, the darkness engulfed him. But the room was up only a few stairs so easily accessible for him, the King in the North. It was not a title he had ever considered, let alone desired or coveted. All that he had ever wanted as a boy was to have a wife and trueborn children, to live an honest life and be happy. Stannis had offered him Winterfell, but he had never wanted it because he had always known that it could never be his. He still did not want Winterfell, not as a Lord or King, though he did want to call Winterfell his home with Sansa being an important figure within it. He wanted to trust her. He wanted her to be the one person that he could trust with everything, because his sworn brothers had betrayed him, his blood kin could not? When he had found her the night before in the crypts, he had heard everything that she had said. That she had betrayed father. That she had trusted people that hurt her and he only knew a handful of things that had hurt her.

In the three short days since the Battle of the Bastards, as everyone was calling it, Jon had begun to hear the gossip and rumours. He had seen the instruments used for flaying. He had seen the vicious dogs, still rabid even after eating their meal and Jon wondered if half the rumours were true, yet knew that they mostly were. There were whispers of the half-man that had been Theon. The cheerful voices of some, remembering Theon’s own betrayal of the Starks, at what Ramsay had sent back to the Iron Islands on behalf of Theon. The girls that Ramsay would violate and give to the dogs, the games he would play, hunting people for sport. And all that it all did was make him question what the bastard had done to Sansa. He knew that she had been married to Tyrion, she and Tyrion had been accused of killing King Joffrey, and then Tyrion’s own Lord father, but Jon had met the Imp and did not quite believe it all. And he could not believe that the Imp would have been a bad husband. He would not have made a good husband, but when Jon heard about Ramsay… what had happened to Sansa in these very walls?

She could not have been hunted, could she? No, Ramsay needed a Stark-Bolton heir to claim his stake on the North forever.

She could not have been flayed, could she? No, Jon was sure that she had all of her fingers. Despite the cold, he had seen her without gloves. Hadn’t he? And what of her toes?

Had the Imp taken her maidenhead? Had a bastard? Had either of them taken what was theirs through marriage? Jon sickened as he saw the girl he had known for most of his life, her perfect skin and perfect hair, sitting at her needlework and dreaming of knights and princes. What had they done to her?

So lost in thought, when Jon started to hear muffled and panicked noises, he took a moment to realize that his feet had taken him near to Sansa’s new chamber. He could hear a voice repeating No over and over, getting faster and more out of breath with each repetition. Dashing to her door, Jon knocked twice and opened the door immediately. He had made promises to protect her. In the crypts before wandering further and her arrival, Jon had stood before his father and promised him, vowing to the Gods that he would protect Sansa for the rest of time. She would be his lady and he would serve her even if he was King In the North.

Sansa was in bed alone. Jon’s hand pulled away from Longclaw and he ran to her side, gripping her arms to pin her down when she began thrashing side to side, her voice getting louder.

“Get off me!” she suddenly screamed, breaking free from his grip and sitting upright. He stumbled from the movement and fell on to the floor, their eyes meeting. There was fear nestled in hers, along with confusion and then just regret and pain. He opened his mouth to speak, but a voice in the doorway distracted them both.

“My lady?” Brienne of Tarth was there, large and imposing. She’ll keep Baelish away, Jon thought.

“I’m fine,” Sansa nodded weakly, getting out of the bed and crossing the room. “Truly, I am safe.” Reluctantly Brienne left the doorway and Sansa closed the door, turning back to Jon. “Don’t ever hold me down again. Do you understand?” There was a coldness and hardness to her that Jon had never seen before.

“What happened?”

She sat back into her bed, pulling the coverings up to her waist. “Night terrors.” Regaining some of her composure she seemed to notice that he was still seated on the floor. “I am sorry for knocking you down.”

“I shouldn’t have scared you.” He stood and gestured to the bed, after she nodded, he sat on the edge, his hand resting on top of the coverings near her legs.

“You did no such thing.” Her hands began to fiddle with themselves. “I…” she sighed. “The memories scare me.” Her voice was low and quiet and he desperately wanted to take her in his arms and hold her close, just as father would have done to Lady Catelyn whenever she was troubled.

“Did he…?” He could not ask the question. He already knew the answer and he knew what her admission would cause them both. It would cause her sadness, pain and shame – speaking those words out loud to her bastard brother. For him, it would fuel an angry fire that he could never hope to extinguish as the bastard husband was already punished and dead. For all intents and purposes, Sansa had been avenged, yet he still felt such an anger and hatred. Jon had known his fair share of rapists up at the Wall. Some were young men accused by aggrieved fathers. Some were younger still who were quickly caught. There were some that boasted of the numbers of women they had taken what they wanted from. As often as he tried to avoid hearing the rapists sharing notes, Jon still knew more than he wished to and more of an idea of what had happened to Sansa than he cared to. It might not have been her maidenhead, but the Bolton Bastard had taken what he wanted from the sweet Sansa.

“You look tired.” Whether Sansa felt embarrassed at his question, her own vulnerable actions or was simply being honest, Jon was not sure but he nodded almost in defeat. 

“I don’t sleep well, not since…” He was sure that she had heard the stories, the rumours and assumptions. Had his brothers tried to kill him? How many stabs had they managed? Had he really died? Had a Red Witch brought him back to life? He asked himself the same questions as he laid awake each night and each morning. Maybe he had never died, simply been asleep. That thought was as naïve as the Sansa that he remembered from many moons ago. Where had she gone?

“Come.” She patted her lap as he would to Ghost and Jon could not help but smile at the similarity. “Lay your head down.”

“It’s not yet dawn. You should try and get more sleep.” He had promised the bones of his father to keep her safe and to look after her.

Her lips formed a sad smile that he desperately wanted to make happier. “I never return to sleep once the memories have woken me.”

Acquiescing, he laid his head down on her thighs, his body curling around to fit on the bed with her and he let out a deep sigh as her fingers started to play through his deep curls. “Do you think… will they fade?” He was unsure if he was asking for her or himself.

She shrugged her shoulders, but he was asleep too soon to notice.


	3. The Last Night of The Full Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments so far; this is my first time posting to this site and I will get around to the comments properly. I'm only finding time now to post as the children are absorbed in Lion Guard!

Jon was, once again, avoiding his chambers and sleep, walking the battlements instead. It was not his turn to. There were no orders for him to. He just did not want to try and sleep alone in his darkened room. As he passed other men on watch, he nodded, maybe making a passing comment. Some shared their ale. Winterfell was quiet in the dead of night. When he was far enough away from other patrolmen, all that Jon could hear was the soft crunching of snow that he and Ghost made. Ghost did not appear to have problems sleeping, but he also liked to keep Jon company sometimes.

Perhaps Jon knew that he would not be able to sleep, rather than he did not want to. Or maybe he was still so well rested from the sleep he had claimed in Sansa’s bed. He still found it hard to believe that he had fallen asleep so quickly and deeply. Even with Ghost in the room, Jon found it difficult to relax and sleep. Could someone find their way in to the room and stab him in his sleep? And then whenever sleep did find him, the blackness would invade, forcing him awake covered in sweat and dry mouthed. When he had awoken, he had been alone in Sansa’s bed, light had been streaming in through the open window and he had felt bereft and alone in the world until he had seen her sitting nearby. She had apologized for waking him, but her legs had become pained and as she had shifted him, hoping he would remain asleep on the bed, he had started to stir. How long had she remained uncomfortable for him?

Glancing up at the full moon, the final night of it if he was correct, Jon was distantly aware of a wolf howling breaking the silence of the night. Instinctively he patted Ghost and then he noticed her, his breath caught in his chest for a moment. Sansa was at her open window, staring up at the full moon, too. Could she feel the pull of the moon, too? She must be cold, he thought. Across the distance he thought he saw her swipe at her face, he felt full of sadness and longing. Without a conscious thought, Jon was making his way to her, Ghost close at his heel. Down the snowy steps he went, back to solid ground and then into her tower, bounding up the stairs to her chamber two steps at a time, holding Longclaw up slightly so it did not bang and clash on the steps, waking the entire keep.

Two knocks on the door and he heard her voice. “Come in, Jon.” Closing the door behind him, he saw that she was still staring out across the night. Had she seen him rushing to her?

“What keeps you awake?” Was it the same as him?

There was barely a pause before she spoke, opening up her wounds to him. “I don’t want anymore night terrors. In the dark, when I awake, I hear nothing but creaks and moans.”

“Aye,” he smiled. As a boy, Winterfell had always felt alive, it’s bones creaking from old age. Or maybe it was just the Ghost of Winterfell. Or patrolmen and the cooling and heating of the bricks and wooden floors.

When she spoke again, her voice was that of a timid mouse. “I thought that once I was home and he was gone, that I would feel safe.”

“You are,” he promised.

“Not in the dark. Not in my dreams. Not when I’m alone with all of the monsters.”

“Maybe… when…” He did not know how to talk. He had no idea of the words that were needed. They had made promises of honesty to each other and he knew that he needed to bare his soul to her. If he still had one. Turning to face him, he saw only patience on her face. “I see blackness when I sleep. I don’t dream. Until the black is filled… the point is,” he amended, “I do not like to sleep. I awake fitfully, wet and out of breath.”

“I saw none of that this morning.”

“Aye,” he agreed. That was his point.

“You wish to sleep in my lap?” she teased and he smiled despite himself because it was a joy to see that twinkle in her eye.

“I thought, perhaps, your terrors might not be as bad if we… were… together.”

“Are you promising to keep my monsters at bay?”

He wanted to grab her by the arms and shake her, to hold her, to show how earnestly he meant his words, but he had only words: “I would have killed your monsters for you. I still will, if you so wish.”

“You’ve done better than that for me. And, yet, he’s still here in the dark.” She tapped at the side of her head. It was the one place that he would never be able to heal for her.

“Then,” he said pulling a chair away from her table, “I shall rest in this chair and maybe that will comfort us both. I need only a blanket or two.”

“Jon, you cannot sleep in a chair.” She blocked his path to her bed where he was about to snatch some bedding. “You are King in the North and have a castle to rebuild, an army to prepare.”

“Sleep will be sleep, Sansa. Better some than none. And I need you rested to help with everything I need to do. Has going South taught you nothing? Kings are just men. Lords are just men. Bastards are just… men. I hate everyone calling me your grace.”

“That’s what you are now. Come, share my bed. Whether you are a King, a man or a brother, sleep beside me.” He sat down on the chair and removed his boots. “You can chase away my monsters and I will chase your blackness.”

He considered her, looking up from where he sat. Sometimes she looked nothing like the Sansa that had looked down on him as a child. They had both grown so much and she was certainly no longer a child. It had been hard to see her beauty and womanly figure when she arrived at the Wall; Jon had noticed and seen the other men notice, too. The part of him that was tired and sought rest desperately wanted to climb in to her bed, but his mind kept nagging at him that he should not lay, even innocently, with a lady. Robb or Bran, they would have shared her bed. They would have comforted their sister. Jon kept repeating those thoughts, trying to justify his actions as he approached her bed. “I never wanted to be King in the North.”

She followed him into the bed, both taking up space on the far edge and he wondered if she was on the verge of falling out just as he was. After blowing out the nearest candles, Sansa left a lantern on the table providing a very dim light for the dark winter night and then she lay down. Her hand found his and he did not flinch it away. Robb and Bran would do the same, he reminded himself. “What do you want?”

Taking a long, slow, deep breath, Jon paused for a moment. “To be home. To keep you safe. To keep the North for Father and Robb, for Bran and Rickon. To stop winter and the Night’s King.” Glancing over at her, shadows from the lantern playing over her face, Sansa was fast asleep. Pulling their still entwined hands up, he placed a kiss on the back of her hand and then gently released it before rolling on to his side to watch her. It took longer for him, but far less time than usual before he fell asleep, his eyes locked on to her.


	4. The Night of the Waning Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waiting for cookies to cool down so posting the next chapter. Thank you for all the kudos and reviews. I am so feeling the love!

He had come to her chamber both nights since that first one. Each time, both Stark children slept more soundly and peacefully than they had in moons, but the terrors did still come. During the day, Jon had started training with any men remaining at Winterfell. The Vale Knights and Lord Baelish had left, returning to the Vale now that the white raven had confirmed that winter was upon the land. Most of their bannermen had returned to their own keeps, leaving only a handful of men to help defend and rebuild Winterfell. The North had spent their autumn fighting a war for King Robb, a war that had first held Sansa prisoner, and now harvesting had been missed. With that and depleted stores, winter would be more difficult than it should have been. Everyone kept saying that after such a long summer, this winter would be devastating, the longest one ever. Sansa truly worried for her family.

Her family.

Jon was her only family now, but she was struggling to see what role he played in her family. He looked so much like father now. Perhaps more-so than he ever had before. Was it his age? Was it that she had not seen either of them in, what felt like, forever? She wondered if she reminded Jon of her own mother and if he found it difficult to look upon her without seeing Lady Catelyn. No matter what pain that would cause Jon, Sansa would give almost anything to see her Lady mother again. She could tell her mother about her pains, the wounds that were healing and the ones Sansa feared never would. Her trials and times since first leaving the bosom of her family had taught Sansa to hide everything and protect herself before everything else, but she was trying to let those walls down for Jon. It would do no good to hide from him. When they had sat in their Great Hall and spoke to a line of bannermen and small folk, Sansa had wondered if they appeared to some as a Lord and Lady of the keep. Did some older small folk believe them to be Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn reborn? Her lady mother had always been honest with Lord Eddard and Sansa modeled her thoughts on that, trying to be open and honest with Jon. Both of her parents had always been honest and true to each other. Aside from the issue of Jon’s mother, that was, but Sansa understood now that sometimes you had to hide.

Whenever Jon asked her something that her mind screamed at her to not answer, Sansa would ask herself if Lady Catelyn would have answered Lord Eddard with a truth. That was what she needed to live by now. That was what she had thought when she was helping out in the kitchens and happened upon Jon training in the yard: how would Lady Catelyn act? Jon had been training with younger boys, some who had been babes in arms when she had last seen them, some who had been orphaned during the war or the sack, older men who had escaped the Bolton forces and remained farmers during the years. A younger lad had managed to sneak around Jon’s defences and hit him in the ribs with a good swing. Sansa had tensed, frozen in waiting for his response. He would order the lad executed for striking a King. Jon had laughed, applauded the lad and ruffled his hair with a wide smile and then returned to training. Later on she had taken lunch to everyone in the yard. Winterfell did not have much in the way of food, but as Jon told it, it was all better than at the Wall.

He still needed to tell her about the Wall and the fresh monsters it was harbouring behind it.

During their lunch of bread and ale, Jon had teased Sansa over something so inconsequential that it was gone from her mind before her afternoon chores, but it did cause her to gather up some snow once his back was turned. As he was about to restart the training, sword in hand and the others all with their eyes on him, Sansa threw the snowball at him. He had turned to her, sword still out, but no tension in his body at all. She had arched her eyebrow at him, throwing a second snowball which hit him square on the face – a rare shot for her – and she roared with unladylike laughter. Distantly she had been away of him discarding his sword and gathering up his own snowball, walking closer and closer to her. All of her cares had melted away, flowing down her cheeks with tears of laughter as he rather gently threw the ball of snow at her. She had squealed none the less, laughing harder and harder as Jon had turned to his men and started throwing snow balls. Showing a tremendous effort in working together, the lad who had managed to lay a stroke on Jon had nodded at the others and Jon and Sansa had seen it at the same time. The ten or so men had gathered a snowball each and all brought their arms up as one. With a smile on his face that Sansa knew had been mirrored on hers, he told her to duck and then covered her with his own body. Her very own human shield.

Ser Davos and Brienne had broken up the fun and games like parents scolding their children. Sansa had felt like Arya and then her heart had ached at the memory of her sister, excusing herself with lies of getting warm. They had not spoken of it when Jon had come to her chamber that night. Both of them had been too exhausted. Despite her exhaustion, Sansa still found herself in the middle of a night terror, Bolton would still invade her sleep even with Jon lying next to her.

Sansa awoke and sat bolt upright, sweat covered her forehead and she felt wet and hot all over as if she had been running from him. Turning to where Jon lay, Sansa hoped that she had not screamed and awoken him.

“Bad dream?” he asked with a voice that seemed wide awake.

“Could you not sleep?” Her lungs could not catch enough air.

“You woke me a while ago with a terror. I didn’t want to scare you and wasn’t sure how to wake you.” When he had grabbed her to wake her up on that first night, she had been terrified that it was Bolton outside of the dream. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“We were having a snowball fight,” she replied, lying back down and turning on her side to face him. She could not remember the last time that she had enjoyed a dream. “As we sheltered from the snow, they turned into spears. You told me to run and we did, but he was there, coming for us. For both of us.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“What for?”

“The snowball fight. If it made you feel scared. You walked off after it.” He continued without letting her object. “I worry that I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t know what might scare you. If I took your hand now, would you flinch away?”

She pulled her hand out from under the blankets and put it near Jon’s, shaking her head into her pillow. Taking her hand, he placed a gentle kiss on it, his beard tickling her. “I left after the fun because I thought of Arya and it upset me.”

“She’ll make it home,” he promised.

“If she made it out of King’s landing, the King’s Road was dangerous even when I travelled it and the wars were over.” They had to assume that she made it out of King’s Landing as no Gold Cloaks had found her. Littlefinger would have, he wanted as many bargaining chips as he could have. “It isn’t the same world as it was when father was Lord of Winterfell.” His mouth opened to speak, but he remained silent. “What is it?”

“Sometimes… I want to hold you, block the world out and tell you that it will all be okay. It’s what Robb would have done, but I never want to scare you.”

“Bolton has ruined me, hasn’t he?” Squeezing her eyes shut and wrinkling her face up did nothing to stop the tears that fell straight from her eyes on to her pillow. She felt him squeeze her hand and through silent muffled sobs, she managed to speak: “I trust you. You can’t scare me.” As soon as the words were out, he had shifted across the bed and thrown his arm around her, some how maneuvering her head onto his chest as he held her with both arms. She could feel his chin on her head and she soon gained control of herself once more. “Would you have killed him? Bolton, I mean?”

She felt him place a kiss on top of her head. There was along silent pause before he spoke into her hair. “I’m ashamed that you saw me like that. So bloodied and brutal.”

“I’ve seen worse. I’ve had worse done to me.” Another long silence. “Would you have?”

“I felt your eyes on me. I could just feel your presence. I wanted to. I wanted to kill him for you. For Rickon. For the brothers that killed me. For those that killed Robb. For Theon driving Bran to the Gods only know.” Her head shifted up and down with his large sigh. “But you are a Stark, and justice was yours.”

“I thought it would bring me peace.”

“Aye, we all do. My brothers hung for what they did to me and no burden has been lifted. I feel I could kill a thousand enemies and still feel nothing.”

“I either feel empty or filled with rage.”

“You looked like neither when you were throwing snowballs at your King.” She swatted his chest and he laughed, vibrating through her head and body, causing her to smile. “But I believe I was laughing, too. Maybe it just takes time.”

Nodding her head against his chest, she yawned and he followed suit. “Thank you, Jon.” He kissed her head again and held her hand to his chest.

That was how they awoke.

 

**The Night the Half Moon Turned**

 

Seven nights had passed since the last full moon and the skies reflected that. With snow all around, the moon light shining down onto the pure white, the half moon made the world seem somewhat darker as Jon had done his rounds along the battlements, across the yard, through passageways and up stairwells. The darkness was what had spurred him on to seek rest earlier than perhaps was normal and Sansa had been still in the process of undressing for bed. She had still been covered, but he had seen more of her skin than the warm clothes of the North usually covered. It had been enough of her porcelain skin to cause Jon’s eyes to narrow, trying to study it from a far and within a few breaths she had covered herself up once more. He believed he had seen bruises on her upper back. Once she had covered her self up once more, there was no way that he could ever ask her. Their nights had fallen into a pattern now. They started each night lying next to each other, each on their backs with Sansa under a blanket more than Jon. It had been his decision to keep a proper distance between them. _It’s what Robb would have done._ Sometimes their hands might reach out for each other, if either of them felt the need for contact. Then, after sleep claimed them, they would remain separated in the bed until terrors woke one of them. Normally her terrors woke him, but often his never seemed to wake her. 

After her terrors, she would cling to him, her head on his chest, silently sobbing and soaking through his clothing. She would tell him of them, sometimes sharing moments from her different prisons. Each time he still felt the anger bubble up within him, but he hoped he was getting better at hiding it. Then they would try and discuss something far more pleasant before sleep claimed one of them. He liked to listen to her breathe, see her shoulders move up and down so slowly that from a distance you would neither see nor hear her. It always lulled him in to a sleep. 

After one of his terrors he would sit up, out of breath and look straight to her. She was becoming his point of reference, the constant that he needed to know that he was alive. She was usually turned away from him, her legs rolled up slightly. The first time, he had hesitated, but he had yearned to feel her in his arms. Enveloping her was the only way that he could lose the blackness that had invaded his sleep. So he had hesitated, but carefully spooned up against her, carefully laying an arm across her. That first time, he had held his breath to see if she flinched away, winced in pain, seemed scared in anyway, but she gave no reaction and he had relaxed. Now he did not even give it a second thought. Then he had nuzzled in to her hair. She mostly wore it loose for bed. She had complained that plaiting it over the long winter nights simply curled it in the wrong places and created far more knots than it was worth. He had laughed at her that night as he had laid in bed, watching her brush her hair, enjoying the simple hassle it brought her. _It’s what Robb would have done._

On that seventh morning, he woke still holding her, curled around her as if they were meant to fit together. Without conscious thought, his brain still foggy in sleep, he nuzzled his face into her hair and neck further so than was usual and when his lips brushed against skin, his lips puckered up and kissed it without his command. She seemed to shiver at the touch, but her breathing remained even and unchanged as he involuntarily moved the arm he had slung over her. His hand came to rest on her hip and he quickly rolled away, his eyes wide open. Whilst spooning up behind her, he had felt his morning blood flow to his groin. It was just his morning blood, he told himself as shame settled deep within him. What if she’d have awoken and felt that? He wondered. There was true light creeping in to the room and he wondered what time it was. Why was she even still asleep?

She was innocent. She was a lady. She was his family. It’s what Robb would have done. He was mortified. What would she think? She would think he was no better than the Imp, than the Bastard Bolton or Littlefinger – each wanting something from her, when he wanted nothing from her. Except he worried he did want things from her. It did not matter, they were things that he would never take. Not like everyone else just took from her. No, that would not be him. Was it just his morning blood?

“I don’t mind.” Her voice was quiet in the room and he cleared his throat unable to speak. Rolling over to face him, she tried to meet his eyes, his cheeks burned under her gaze. “You said that you were scared of holding me, that you might frighten me. Somehow, I know it’s you. I’m not saying I might never flinch, but I don’t mind. If you…” He side glanced at her and she was biting her lip. Had she felt him? “If it’s how you feel comforted after a terror.”

“Do they wake you?” His eyes quickly flickered to meet hers and then returned to staring upwards.

“Sometimes. Other times, I wake from my own terror already in your embrace.”

Nodding uncomfortably, Jon sprang up and sat up, facing away from Sansa. “Dawn has broken. We should break our fast and get to work.”


	5. The Night of the Half Moon

That night, Sansa found herself lying wide awake, staring at Jon as he gently snored in his sleep. Sometimes he had an awful loud snore and she had already managed to discover that by rolling him over and away from her, it would alter his breathing and stop the snore. It was not loud enough, but sleep was still evading her. She was worried that it was because she had told him how his terrors did sometimes wake her. There had been no complaint behind her words, she had been trying to help him. That was all that she wanted, to help him and to have him there for her. As long as he was vowing to protect her from everything, she would do anything she could to help his days and nights. Truth be told, she had quickly learnt that she liked to wake up wrapped up in his arms. Under her blankets and furs, Sansa never felt particularly cold in her chamber bed, but there was something so pleasing about the warmth that came from his body, through his own layer of clothing and the blanket or two that separated them. The arm that cuddled around her never felt heavy or encumbering, simply comforting and like an anchor keeping her on an even keel. Sometimes when he was asleep with his arm across her, she would hold it closer, bringing his hand up to her cheek and breathe in his scent. He had very quickly become an integral part of her life and in parts of her, it scared Sansa to the extreme.

She had trusted and needed too many people since leaving Winterfell and it had all led to misery for her so extreme in it’s severity that she still had the odd thought that she should not trust again, not even Jon. But then she would see his concern in his eyes and she would yearn for his warmth in her bed.

If he had taken a complaint in her words, if she had upset or angered him enough to avoid her all day, it had not stopped him coming to her chambers once more that night. She had still been up, brushing the day’s tangles and knots from her hair. It seemed that no matter how she plaited her hair, working hard throughout the castle was just too messy a job and her hair was bearing the brunt of it. Jon had knocked on her door and waited for her call before entering, after almost catching her half naked another night, he always knocked and waited now. He had walked straight to the bed, discarding his boots as Ghost followed him in silently. Sansa enjoyed being around a direwolf again, although to see him she could have been mistaken from ever thinking that Ghost was Lady’s runt brother. She had complained about her hair as he stripped off his outer clothing and pulled on an extra top and light trousers that he slept in over his under-clothes. “I might cut it off,” she had suggested.

“Don’t you bloody dare,” had been his answer and any apprehension over not seeing him all day had vanished. She had climbed into bed next to him, wondering if he would reach for her hand as she really wanted him to, but stubbornly refused to take hold of his. As such, he was asleep and she was lying, watching him and feeling absolutely wide awake.

There was a knock on the door and Sansa jumped in shock. Glancing back down at Jon, he was still sound asleep so she quietly went to the door, pulling on a cloak first. “Yes?”

“It’s Podrick, my lady.”

Sansa opened the door slightly, not wanting Pod or anyone else to be able to see Jon fast asleep in her bed, or his clothes discarded across the floor. She really must ask him to be tidier in her chambers. When either Brienne or Pod had the time, they stood guard near Sansa’s room, but there were other far more important duties including guarding the battlements and access points. They had never discussed it, but as no one else had mentioned anything, Sansa assumed that Jon hid his intentions when he came in to her chambers on a night. He normally left before first light, too. Lady Catelyn would not approve. “Yes?”

“Sorry to disturb you, my lady. A raven has arrived from The Twins.”

“The Twins?”

“Yes, my lady.” Pod handed the scroll over.

“You should have taken this to Jon, not I.” The words came out before she realized and she and Pod stared at each other.

“I have, my lady,” Pod answered slowly and carefully before giving her an odd smile and turning away. Of course, he had once squired for Tyrion, he probably assumed… Sansa could not continue the thought so closed the door and opened the scroll instead.

“Jon!” she declared. “Jon!” she shouted louder when he did not respond.

“What?” he mumbled, stirring from sleep and she looked over at him as he sat up, a smile across her face.

“We’ve received a raven, Jon. Lord Frey is dead.” She knew immediately that it was terribly unladylike but she could not contain the joy in her voice, or stop the smile on her face. “His throat slit and a handful of his sons slain. Uncle Edmure is free and swears himself to King in the North. Jon, he’s heading for Riverrun.”

“But the Lannisters?”

“Fuck the bloody Lannisters, Walder Frey is dead.” Robb and her Lady mother were avenged. He laughed at her and she ran at him, scroll still in hand. Literally throwing herself at him, he caught her and the force pushed him to the bed. He rolled to save her from falling and she could see her smiled matched on his face. “Don’t you understand, Jon? Robyn can help Uncle Edmure. They can take the Twins. They can keep us safe from the South whilst we deal with the monsters above the wall. They can’t come for me.”

“They never could.” 

She pulled him down to her and relaxed into his hold, sighing as his full weight covered her and she had no single flinch at being trapped by him. After a moment she pushed him away slightly and he looked at her curiously. “There was something at the end of the letter. Something about a pointy end.”

“What?” he demanded, pushing away from her and searching for the scroll which she had discarded beside them on the bed. She sat up in confusion.

“Do you know what that means?”

He read it and his face broke out in to a huge grin. She had no idea why but it was infectious. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” He laughed, and she looked at him amusingly. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” This time he roared with laughter and grabbed her, pulling her up. Standing up on the bed, he spun her around and around until they fell back down, their faces inches apart. He was on top of her again and she could feel her heart beating double speed at the exhilaration. She was still lost in his joy. “It’s Arya. She’s alive and with your uncle.”

Her smile fell away in shock. She had truly thought her sister lost forever. His brow furrowed at her. “She’s not dead.” He shook his head, the smile back on his lips. “She’s not dead,” she repeated and reached up both hands to his face. For a moment she hesitated, but then almost giddy with joy, she moved upwards to meet his face and placed her lips upon hers. Or she brought his to hers, she was not sure in the moment. She was the one to pull away, still holding his face firmly and she shivered when she saw desire in his eyes. Desire scared her, but she tried to remain calm, pushing a smile on to her face. “We have to send a raven back.”

“It can wait until morning.” His voice was thick and it made her catch her breath. What was he suggesting? “Although I doubt I’ll sleep now.” What did he want to do? She had gone too far. Men only wanted one thing. He pulled away from her, leaving her, despite her fear also feeling slightly bereft, and reached for hand. “Let’s raid the kitchens. I’m sure we can find some wine and cake to celebrate.”

“Lemon cake?” she asked and he grinned, pulling her from the room.

 

**The Night of the Waning Crescent**

“What do you dream of?” she asked him one night as they settled into their bed. Her bed, he reminded himself. Ever since the night when the received the raven from Edmure and Arya, ever since their night time raiding of the kitchen where they had laughed and she had giggled for hours eating cake and cheese, drinking wine and ale, ever since they had kissed, things had been different. Random moments when they were talking, he would become distracted by her lips, remembering how they felt and hoping for a moment that he could feel them on his lips once more. Each time he would remind himself that it had been a sisterly kiss, nothing more and that was all that she had meant by it. Not that it had felt a particularly chaste kiss to him, but that mattered nothing. In some ways they had become more comfortable with each other, spending long moments without a word. When they were breaking their fast, he would pass her the salt as she passed him the ale, both smiling a thanks. It was as if they were working without communication, in perfect harmony. But in private they seemed to speak less. Was that what happened when you became so close to someone? Did you run out of thinks to say?

“I dream of a blackness filling up.” Her eyes were on him as he lay by her side, he could feel them burning in to her. They had sent a raven to Riverrun and the Twins, asking what their further plans were, informing them that Jon was now the King in the North with Sansa by his side, and that Rickon was dead. Jon, Davos and Tormund hoped that it was enough to keep them to their cause. Well, Tormund didn’t, he just wanted to know if anyone could bring any better tasting ale.

“What does it fill with?” His eyes glanced over at her, but soon returned to staring straight up, watching the shadows dancing across the ceiling. He hoped that they would distract him enough.

“Red. And pain,” he added as an afterthought. He needed to be honest. “It’s the stabs. My men… I died. Why was I brought back?” It was not really a question for Sansa, more a question that he asked himself night after night, day after day. There were never any answers.

“Maybe to save the world. To retake Winterfell. To save me. To stop my terrors.” Desperately he wanted to believe her, wanted to accept her innocence. “What was it like?” she whispered.

“What was what like?”

“Dying. Death. Being dead.”

He tensed up and almost snapped back at her, rephrasing her questions to enquire about her most terrifying memories, but he restrained himself. “I… I was just gone after the pain. Well, the pain wasn’t that bad. I’ve felt worse. It was cold – where they stab-killed me. I had very little feeling. The Battle… the Battle was harder. It hurt more.”

Her hand reached over to his cheek and turned his face to her, her fingers stroking the hair there. He closed his eyes and relaxed in to her hand, letting his head get heavier on the pillow. Her thumb skimmed over his lips and he grabbed her hand, forcing it to still. Turning into it, he kissed her palm. It’s what Robb would do, he told himself as he placed her hand on the bed, still holding it. 

“We should sleep,” she said, taking her hand away and rolling so her back was to him.


	6. The Night A Stark Returned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for people to learn the truth - assumes R + L = J.

It was half way from a full moon until the next, the nights of no moon and Sansa found herself much more relaxed within her family home. She did not want to believe that it was due to the moon, but she could not fail to notice the correlation. The sun was just setting, as she and Jon walked across the yard, wasting some time as the kitchen staff readied dinner. He had been training hard all day long, she had been watching as she flew around from place to place, checking rooms and stores that had been forgotten during the Bolton occupation. Everyone had said that the coming winter was going to be a long one, after such a long spring and summer, but truly no one knew how long it would be. The Boltons had, despite the sacking and abuse of able bodied farmers, managed to make quite a collection of food provisions. Robb had taken many of the men from across the North for his War. His war to rescue herself, she had to keep reminding herself. There had only been women left to farm, tend to animals, sow a final few seeds. Despite their stores, Sansa and Jon had both sat in the Great Hall and listened to the commonfolk, just as her Mother and Father had together, telling of their lack of food and already dwindling supplies. Sansa was not sure that they would all make it. It made her almost miss the Vale. It made her almost glad of all the bloodshed.

She grabbed Jon by the arm. “Look!” she declared and she moved away from his side, bending down in to the dirt.

“Sansa, what are you doing?”

She stood back up and held a blue winter rose in her hands, freshly plucked from the ground. Of course there were the crops that grew best in winter. Those foods might not be the tastiest, but they would keep them all alive. “We need to source seeds of all the best grown winter vegetables.” She cut him off as he looked at her. “I know that Northerners already know which are best; I’m not dumb. I just mean that we need to concentrate on that. Raid our supplies for any of those vegetables and acquire new seeds. I know that the ground will be a problem, but perhaps if I could borrow a few good men to plough up some of the ground tomorrow.” Most of Winterfell was covered in a frost except for nearest where the hot walls were. “We could use a spare room, one with plenty of light, to plant. Keep the ground warmer that way.” The castle itself had been built over hot springs, with hot water constantly piped into the walls and floors. They could easily make an indoor garden.

He smiled at her and she blushed. “After dinner, I shall help you.”

“Thank you.” She reached up and placed a gentle kiss on the stubble of his cheek. His beard and hair were both wilder than it had been two weeks earlier, but he was clearly still attempting to keep it orderly.

He took the rose from between her fingers. She had been spinning it around and around, twiddling it between a thumb and forefinger. Sniffing it, his smile caused her to copy. “I have always loved the smell of winter roses.”

“Because you are a Stark.” Often she would remind him that he, too, was a Stark. Mainly to reassure herself that she was including him and keeping him an equal partner. She did not want him to ever think that she was pushing him out or envious of him being King. Honesty had been her promise, after all.

“Aye.” With a gentle hand, Jon placed the rose behind her ear, his fingertips brushing her ear and then cheek. She felt a hot blush creep up her neck and cheeks, oddly remembering a time when Littlefinger had been this close to her and how awkward she had felt. There was no awkwardness with Jon. He suddenly seemed closer, but she was sure neither of them had taken a step. Perhaps one of them were leaning in to the other, she wondered. A call from the battlements brought them out of the moment.

“Horses approaching!” a guard called. “Wi’ Night’s Watch banners.”

Sansa nodded with a smile and in an instant Jon had left her side, walking briskly to the gate, barking orders. She stood where she was for a moment, seemingly unable to move and then she could suddenly see an expanse of white. It was snow. It was all around her. Her eyes pinpointed something moving in the snow. It looked as small as insects and she tried to look closer. Yes, she could make out 4 people on horseback; two were clearly men of the Night’s Watch and the other two were clearly not. Then she felt the wind in her hair. Freezing currents rushing past her. The snow on the ground was rushing past her as she circled the riders, around and around until she could see each face clearly. There was no noise, but one of the riders opened their mouth and she somehow heard her own name. Her name.

And then she was taking a step back, almost stumbling over. She was back inside Winterfell, in the yard. She could see Jon pointing and hear him shouting, directing people to open the gate. Hitching up her dress she ran straight across the yard. Jon managed to catch her arm as she ran past. Ignoring the pain from her bruises, she smiled at him.

“Sansa?” he questioned.

Tearing herself free she said one word before she continued running out of the gate and out of Winterfell. “Bran!”

**GOT – GOT – GOT**

As Sansa had run past him across the yard, the winter rose had fallen from her hair. After all of the commotion, Jon had found another in the near darkness, picking it with the purpose of giving it to his sister.

No, he reminded himself. Cousin.

Sitting up on the battlements, squeezed in to the gaps in the high wall that guards kept an eye through, that arrows flew from in a siege, Jon felt his legs freely hanging down over the safe protection of Winterfell. After all, he no longer belonged in Winterfell, did he? He no longer had the birthright to lead the North as their King, did he? And he no longer had any claim on Winterfell at all. It was all Sansa’s and Bran’s, his sister and brother.

No, his cousins.

He shook his head and slowly picked off one of the brightly coloured petals, watching it fall down in to the darkness that was the ground somewhere beneath him. That morning, after a night with barely any moon shining, Jon had awoken as was now normal – in his sister’s arms. No, his cousin’s arms. He had spent the day as they now always did – training, cleaning, shifting furniture, broken bricks, rebuilding, un-building. He spent his lunch with her. He broke his fast with her and they had been heading to dinner together when Bran had appeared. He had been spending his days and nights with his sister.

No, his cousin. Until Bran had appeared.

Sansa had run out to the Night’s Watch party, despite Jon’s protests, and then she had rode back in behind a horsed Bran. Despite the shock of seeing his younger brother, a brother they had thought to be lost on the North side of the wall, Jon had helped his sister unhorse. He had noticed her wince as she moved her legs. He had noticed her pained face through out the joyous feast that had quickly been put together. Bran had ridden in with Meera from House Reed and two Night’s Watchmen, and four horses between them. The brothers from the watch were men Jon was aware of, but not on friendly terms as such. They had been sent simply as guards for the King in the North’s brother and bannermen’s daughter – on Edd’s orders. Bran and Meera had made it to Castle Black a few days earlier. Meera had, on all accounts been near exhaustion, pulling Bran for goodness knew how long. They had lost count of the number of days that had passed. Bran had even declared that he had no idea of the day, or the fact that it was winter now.

_“It’s always winter beyond the wall,”_ Bran and Jon had agreed. The Night’s Watch brothers had been thanked, fed and given beds for the night. Bran had then requested that only those trusted by Jon and Sansa to be present in what had been Father’s, no Uncle’s, solar. Jon had taken Ser Davos and Tormund, Sansa had taken only Brienne into a meeting that would change his entire world. There, Jon and Sansa had tried to tell Bran what had been happening in the world below the Wall, but Bran had wanted to hear nothing. He had said that he knew all that he needed to for the realms of men and then Bran had started his story as Meera fell asleep mid-sentence in the chair closest to the fire. He told them about the Night’s King and a three-eyed raven. Sansa had looked doubtful and Jon had felt the same, but remained open minded outwardly after all he knew that the Night’s King was real. As was his army of the undead. Bran had told them about the Children of the Forest, how they had created the Night’s King – a man of the realm before their magic. He told them of their magic being used on Uncle Benjen who was trapped beyond the wall, magically neither dead nor alive. Sansa had grabbed his hand at that news, the news of their uncle. Yes, Benjen was still his uncle, the only person to be a constant. Bran had told them that Summer had been lost to him. And Hodor, too. The younger Stark had gone quiet at that, staring at the cold, barren wall for a long moment.

And then Bran, seemingly saving the best for last, had told Jon and Sansa, their closest advisors, about how he could _warg_ into Summer and other animals, about how he could communicate with the Weirwood trees and see into the past and future. Jon had shared a look with his sister – cousin – about whether their brother – his cousin – had gone crazy. Talking with trees? Going so far North had driven the Stark mind mad. He had seen, in his dreams of madness, their father – uncle – in Dorne at the end of Robert’s Rebellion. Ned had gone to rescue his sister from the Crown Prince, Rhaegar. According to Bran’s dreams, Ned had found Lyanna abed having just given birth, lying in her bed of blood and then passing. Ned had then brought the babe home.

_“The babe was Jon.”_ Sansa had spoken in the silence. Jon was still unsure if she had been asking or realizing. He was still unsure if he believed any of what Bran said. Davos had sought the travellers nourishment and came back with what would be termed a feast given their lack of supplies. Word had quickly spread that Bran had returned to Winterfell and the kitchen had begun work with no orders to do so. Tormund had carried a still sleeping Meera to some chambers, Brienne following with food for when she awoke and Davos left the siblings to their privacy. No, not siblings anymore, Jon thought with a sigh.

Sansa had retired to sleep and Jon had remained, silently, brooding into his hands, his eyes refusing to shut. _“I speak the truth,”_ Bran finally whispered in to the dark. _“You are not the bastard son of Ned Stark, you are the true-born prince of Rhaegar and Lyanna.”_ With those words Jon had left the boy he considered brother. His feet had taken him up to the battlements, his eyes teary, but far from tired.

He picked another petal from the rose and watched it disappear into darkness.

“Are you not tired?”

He gave a heavy sigh. He had heard her soft footsteps approaching. There was no need to look up and see who it was. “How can I sleep when I don’t know who I am?”

“You are still Jon. Father being your uncle does not make you any different.”

“I feel like the blackness is coming over me.” Another petal dropped down in to the void.

“Perhaps,” she considered, “the black and red of your dreams are not your brothers and what they did to you, but of your true father. They are the colours of House Targaryean.”

“I am not a Targaryean. I’m a wolf.” He sighed again and then spoke quieter. “A wolf who still is not in your pack.”

She tugged at his arm and he reluctantly, pulled himself back up from where he sat and stood up next to her. “You were always in my pack, Jon. I just never realized. There are times when I am a wolf and times I am a fish. Being Targaryen does not stop you being a wolf.” She touched his cheek with her gloved hand and he felt the warmth. They both smiled and she added. “At least you are no longer a bastard.”

He snatched himself away, his cheek suddenly cold without her touch. “You and your Ladies. Gods, Sansa, you don’t change, do you?” The snow crunched under his feet as he walked away from her.

“Fuck Lords and Ladies, Jon, and fuck Kings, too.” He stopped at her language and after a long moment, once the anger had dissipated, turned back to face her. “I meant that you now know who both of your parents are. There was no whore, no honour lost.”

“Do I?” he demanded as if she could see the past as Bran imagined that he could. “Do I know that Rhaegar loved Lyanna? Or do I know that he raped her, forced her, was a monster like the Mad King? Father may have broken his honour in fathering me, but he was no monster.”

“He did not rape her,” Sansa asserted.

“How do you know that?”

“Would you love my child from Bolton? Knowing what he has done to me?”

“It would be your child, too. It would be part-wolf.”

“I could not love it and I could not beg you to love it. I could not ask you to be dishonest to everyone in your life, to lie to your Lady wife, tainting that love, all for my monster child.” She stopped under his intense scrutiny and he watched her. He watched as the sudden tension left her face and she took a deep breath. “Rhaegar loved Lyanna. I know it. And Targaryan’s practiced polygamy.”

“Well,” he responded drily, “there is that advantage.”

She playfully swatted him on his arm and he finally returned her smile. “If you want to forsake King in the North for the Iron Throne go ahead, but I warn you that I shall never set foot inside King’s Landing again.”

“Then that dream is gone,” he jested in response. “As I shall never leave your side.”

“I am no longer your sister.” Was she trying to tell him that he no longer needed to protect her? That he no longer had to keep her safe and keep his promises? _What would Robb do?_ There was an odd sadness in her eyes.

“There is that to consider, too.” Although in truth, he had never really seen her as a sister in their youth. He had been too young to ever realize that Lady Stark was withchild and could not remember a time without a little red-haired girl being present in the castle, his father’s daughter, but, no, Sansa had never really been his sister not in the same way that Arya had been, or how Bran, Rickon and Robb had been his brothers. When she had left for King’s Landing and he for the Wall, there had been no goodbyes.

“Along with?” Her eyes still held the sadness that he could not place or fully name.

“Am I a prince?” He threw his arms out and smiled ruefully. “Or a King? Am I Targaryen or a Stark? North or South?”

Closing the distance between them, she cupped his cheek with her hand. Once again the warmth soon penetrated and comforted him. She seemed to be his one constant since he returned to life. “Whoever you want.”

With her words he truly felt like he could do anything with her by his side. “Truly? I just want sleep.”

“Come,” she smiled and she led him through the castle and into the warmth of her chamber.


	7. The Night The Wolf Came Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for Sansa to admit a few things.
> 
> I'll give a warning for very mild violence between main characters, but it really is mild.

Sansa was sitting in her chambers, brushing out her hair from the day of heavy work yet again. She could feel her body changing underneath her clothes, bit by bit and day by day. Already dressed in her nightwear – bindings and undergarments still on and a thin shift underneath a heavier, old, grey dress that reached beyond her knees but too short to wear in the cold of winter, Sansa had taken to always wearing many layers. It was not because of the cold. No, Sansa rather enjoyed feeling the cold in her bones and feeling the warmth of activity or sharing her bed so closely with Jon for most of the nights. Both of them still had their night terrors although sometimes just his arm on her was enough to cease hers. No, Sansa could feel the changes occurring within her from the manual labour, from eating and eating and still being ravenous, but she did not want to see them. Handmaidens were still few and far between. There was still no Maester for the house. Often, Sansa would dress and undress herself out of necessity. She preferred it that way. The Bolton handmaidens had never been friendly. The ones in King’s Landing were all spies for her enemy, too. And she had never trusted anyone in the Vale. Sansa drew her own bath, or dismissed anyone before undressing for a bath. She no longer allowed anyone to see underneath her clothing. No one should be forced to see how broken she was.

Since Bran’s return only a day earlier, Sansa had been made even more aware of how broken she was. Her family now felt broken after Bran’s revelation regarding Jon. Something in her heart ached whenever she thought about Jon being a Targaryen and no longer her brother. He was not hers anymore and that hurt. Yet, he had still shared her bed that night just as he had the night before when he was simply a Snow. No, it had been her foolish run out to Bran and then jumping up on to his horse like a child that had reminded her mind of how broken her body was. At the end of every day, her body ached from exertion, her arms from lifting, her legs from walking the length of the castle time after time after time. Her frame was changing, her clothes had ceased to fit as well as they had, that told her how much she had changed. She had gained weight, she was sure of it. Her bindings over her breasts had become tight. They had swollen slightly, but not uncomfortably. And there were gentle curves on her now, not as angular as they had been. She was eating now, not cowering in pain from another beating from Bolton. But she only knew that her hips were rounder because of her clothes. Just as no one’s eyes were allowed on her broken body, neither did she allow herself to look and neither did she allow her hands to feel.

There was a knock on the door and Jon walked in. Sansa stood up and winced slightly as she made her way to the bed. She felt more tired than usual and wanted Jon to hurry up so that she could fall asleep beside him. He had tossed and turned too much the night before and so she had barely slept. When he was still she had been mesmerized by his profile, watching him as his brow gave away that he was not in a peaceful sleep.

“How has your day been?” she asked, sitting on the side of the bed, waiting for him to remove his outer clothing and put on an old shirt and trouser set that he kept in her chambers.

“I’ve tried to busy myself, but I keep wondering about my mother.” He sat with a bounce next to her and she wobbled. “I always thought that I just wished that I knew who she was, what she looked like, how she acted and now, I know, but I know less.”

“Hmmm,” she mumbled.

“I know a bit more of my mother than I did last moon, but I know less of my father and I have lost a father. The only parent that I did know.”

“Yes.”

“Sansa?” She snapped her face to his, meeting his curious eyes. “When Bran returned, you ran straight out of the gates.”

“I knew it was him,” she responded immediately. She did not need a telling off from her older cousin. Somehow she had slipped straight in to calling him her cousin. Maybe because she had never treated him as a brother.

“That’s not what I-”

“I’m no silly little girl, Jon!” She stood up as she argued back.

“The horse-”

“You believe me to still be a weak, naïve, dreamer?” How dare he come in to her chambers and start acting like a Lord or King in her own home!

“No, but-”

“I knew it was Bran, I can’t explain it.” She could try and explain that she had felt like a bird, but Jon had enough to try and come to terms with. He would probably think she had gone mad. Maybe that was what _warging_ was, but he barely believed Bran so he would never believe her. Terrible things happened when she was naïve. Awful things happened when she did not act as a Lady should and Ladies did not dream of being birds.

“I saw-”

“I am aware it appears foolish and reckless.” There was an anger within her that had built from him accusing her, from him telling her off as a father would a child for doing something that had not caused any harm. How dare he act the Lord now just because he had Targaryen blood! “But it was neither and you cannot control me, Jon Snow. No one can control me!” She was shouting now and he was standing in front of her looking a mixture of confused and angry.

His eyes snapped, leaving only the anger. “Are these moods of yours quite frequent?” He finally spat out and her mouth clamped shut. She knew what happened when a Lady spoke out of place. “I can see why Littlefinger sold you away. Shall I send a raven to dear Petyr?”

She heard the loud crack of her palm slapping his cheek before she even realized she had done it. His jaw clenched and she waited for him to hit her back, for him to beat her over and over until she learnt her lesson. _Why wasn’t he reacting?_ She slapped him again, her own eyes stinging. _Why won’t he fight back?_ She slapped him a third time. “Fight back!” she demanded with a scream. She slapped him again, weaker. _Why?_ “Hit me!” she begged as she suddenly fell toward him with exhaustion and he grabbed her, catching her fall. Her body had given up. Her face was hidden in the darkness of his chest as her body violently sobbed.

He held her as she sobbed, gently stroking her hair and rubbing her lower back whilst he made comforting shushing noises. After a long while, her sobs subsided and she turned her head to rest her cheek upon his damp chest. “Do you feel better?”

She nodded her head and a muffled sound came out of her mouth as she tried to apologise.

Forcing her to look at him, he put a finger to her lips; no apology was needed. “I came to see you to enquire about your health,” he explained. “I saw you look pained when dismounting Bran’s horse and your movements have been slower.”

There was no stopping the blush that covered her cheeks as she realized that she had completely exploded at him over his concern for her welfare. It was a concept foreign to her. Her embarrassment caused her to try and turn away, his hand on her cheek stopped her. “When it was just us three alone, talking, your face showed pain on every laugh. By the end your smile barely reached your eyes.”

“It was the riding.” She had been healing from her injuries, but jumping from Winterfell’s battlements, trekking to the Wall on foot, wading through freezing cold streams and then riding a horse before the Battle was won, they had all taken their toll on her fragile body. She had no idea how to explain any of that in words to Jon so instead she stepped away from him, but kept her eyes locked on to his. With shaking fingers, Sansa began to remove her outer clothing. His eyes showed confusion as he reached out and put his hand on hers.

“Sansa-”

Shaking his hand off she explained, “You need to see to understand.” He remained where he stood as she continued taking her clothing off, until she was left in just the bindings that covered her breasts and a petticoat. Her eyes were tightly shut yet she could feel his eyes simply on her eyes. With every ounce of strength that she possessed, Sansa forced her eyes open and met Jon’s. Biting her lower lip slightly, her head nodded the smallest amount and his eyes left hers. She watched his eyes, waiting for the shame and disgust. Bolton always had a look of disgust, hatred and arousal when he looked upon her, though she knew that the arousal had nothing to do with her sex, just her scars.

“Do they hurt?” His voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking louder would cause harm to her damaged outer shell.

“Mostly, no, not anymore. Until the riding. I think it agitated some things.” Tentatively he reached out the fingers from one hand and paused just before they touched her. His eyes snapped up to hers, seeking permission and she nodded whilst holding her breath. Then his fingers touched her where no one had touched, not even herself, in almost two moons. The touch was unlike anything she had experienced before. It was not as homely as she remembered mother and father holding her. It was not the soft, harsh hands of a king or the knuckles of the Kingsguard. It was a rough and calloused touch, like the Hound, but there was a softness that no Bolton had ever considered. His fingers moved to a rib just under her bindings. It jutted out at an angle and was what had been hurting her when laughing or exerting herself like on the horse or running away from Winterfell. It would forever be broken.

His eyes asked _what happened?_

“The _King_ would have his personal guard beat me before the court for father’s crimes, for Robb’s crimes, for my own.”

His fingers crossed her stomach and found a mess of fine line scars. They intersected. They stretched on and on. They had been inflicted slowly and meticulously. His eyes asked her again, this time refusing to leave her eyes as she answered. He kept his fingertips on the healing skin. 

“Bolton liked to see me bleed when he…” She may have found the courage to show her wounds, but she could not talk about everything that the monster did so her voice trailed off as she bowed her head. With as gentle a touch as he used on her body, Jon’s hand lifted her face and forced her eyes up to meet his. He shook his head telling her that it was not her fault. “I’m still broken,” she whispered harshly with fresh tears in her eyes and she suddenly whipped herself around. There was no point in stopping half way. Taking a deep breath Sansa moved her hair across her back and draped it over her shoulder, exposing her back to Jon. Both of his hands, she could feel all ten digits separately, began touching the scars and the fresher cuts that might yet become scars. She believed that she could remember each and every mark, exactly how she got each individual one. They were mostly from Bolton. “He would prefer, mostly, to take me like a dog, a beast, but still wanted to see… the blood. To hear my screams.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and she wondered for a moment if Jon had even heard her. It might better that way, she considered.

And then his hands grabbed her waist, his forehead crashed against her shoulder. She tensed in fear, her breathing quickening until she heard him apologizing. Over and over he apologized. “I’m sorry, so sorry.” Wrenching herself free from him, Sansa turned herself back to face him with a furrowed brow. His hands cupped her face and he leant his forehead against hers. They were so close that she could see a wetness in his eyes. Was he crying? “I want to kill them all,” he rasped. “I want them to feel what you felt, still feel.” His eyes closed and then looked down upon her and he moved away slightly, moving his fingers over an angry red welt just poking out from her bindings. “What?” he demanded angrily, harshly and she gulped in fear, shifting her bindings without hesitation. “Are those teeth?” Sansa nodded. “He bit you?”

She pulled away from him and started to lift up her petticoat layers. Her thighs were what hurt the most after riding with Bran. Again, she never looked at what she could only imagine was a mass of bruises and bites. Since riding Bran’s horse, she could feel the pain with every step, every time she sat or stood. His hands stopped her, making it clear that he did not want to see, that she was disgusting in his eyes, but then he bent slightly and forced her to look at him. There was no disgust in his eyes only anger and concern. “No one will ever touch you again. I promise.” And he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her.

After all of the distrust she had learned in King’s Landing and the Vale, there was something about her cousin’s words and arms that made her believe him.


	8. The Night A Wold Could Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little one to kind of accompany the last.

_“No one will ever touch you again. I promise.”_ Of all the vows that he had made and considered breaking, because he never actually got around to breaking his Night’s Watch vows and leaving the Wall, his promise to Sansa was one that he knew at the very moment that he said it, that he would keep until his dying day. He would protect her from Baelish and his games, his attempts to finally have a Tully wed him and rule the Iron Throne. He would protect her from any other suitors that she did not choose for herself. He would protect her from Lannisters and Greyjoys and Freys, and any other family that could pose a threat to her, to them and to the North. He would protect her alongside the realms of men from the Night’s King and his undead army. Quite often Jon Snow had the thought that something was shifting in his thoughts and feelings for his cousin, Sansa Stark, but he always fought that very train of thought, denying to give it any attention as if it would starve and shrivel up and die if ignored for long enough.

He would protect Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell from the world by wearing the crown of King in the North because he still did not want that title, still did not want Winterfell as his own. He wanted it all for her. Watching as Sansa carried a large basket on her hip from one side of the yard to another, Jon was reminded once again of how he had failed to protect her and had failed to even notice her pain. Her hip jutted out as her walk altered under the heaviness, emphasizing just how trim her waist had become. Given their years apart and the pain she had suffered through, Jon was unsure if the almost drastic curve of her body was due to becoming a woman full grown or due to the lack of food the North was still suffering from. Whichever was the reason, it did not change the way that she paused after lowering the basket, or how she then rubbed through her layers of clothing at her side, her painful chest. It hurt her to breathe sometimes, he knew that now. How could he have never noticed it before she showed him, the almost imperceptible wince as she mounted a horse, on each trot of the horse? How was she able to hide that pain so well? How did he hide the pain of a thousand knives?

And now he knew exactly why her body hurt.

Her scars and marks, the events she had described to him, the sadness that had been in her eyes and the untold events that he knew she had kept back, they all made Jon want to travel back through time to when Ramsay had loosed those arrows at him not too far from where he currently stood. Even now Jon could remember the feeling, how with each arrow, he had brought his shield up, catching each one. He could still taste the blood on his tongue; a mixture of blood from his own injuries, from the enemies and friends that fallen beside him and then, finally, from the Bastard himself. Each hit Jon had made, each crunch of contact had sprayed the Bastard’s blood and Jon had reveled in it. It still worried him – the fact that he had taken a slither of joy from that final beating. At the time he had convinced himself that it was all for Rickon, but it was really because of the darkness that still consumed his sleep.

If Jon could go back to then with his current knowledge, he would have inflicted all of Sansa’s injuries back on to the Bastard Bolton. He would find _King_ Joffrey, the Kingsguard that had no backbone and do to all of them what they had done to her. Sometimes his rage scared him and he wondered if it was the wild wolf’s blood that his lady mother, Lyanna, had been rumoured to have. Or was it the maddening blood of the dragon that caused his temper to flare so?

In the two days since Sansa had revealed herself to him, Jon had found himself watching her whenever she was present whether she was by his side or across the Hall, noticing every wince and half smile that her pain allowed her. Hatred and disgust filled him when he realized that for almost two moon’s turns, he had never noticed those pains. How alone had sweet Sansa felt ever since she left for King’s Landing? Perhaps ever since she lost Lady? It made Jon conversely keep Ghost closer, but also send him to Sansa whenever the time permitted it. That direwolf that had been the runt of the pack would now have to serve as guardian to two Stark children. For all he knew Ghost was the last one left. Lady, Grey Wind, Summer and Shaggy Dog were all gone, leaving Bran and Sansa alone and whilst they had heard nothing else other than Arya’s coded message from the Riverlands, she, too was without Nymeria, who could be dead as were the others. Jon had desired only to find his kin and the Gods had finally answered his prayers, maybe Ghost would one day find his sister wolf.

Lowering the basket filled with building materials, Sansa excused herself and headed to the kitchens. Without a word, Jon followed her. She was alone in the kitchens, a cup of water in her hands when Jon’s quiet steps followed her. She finished her cup and turned around, hand flying to her chest as she jumped in shock at seeing Jon standing there.

“Jon! You frightened me!” He hated himself for that, but was pleased that there was a smile on her face rather than abject fear. She was finally beginning to feel relaxed once more in her home. That was all that he could truly hope for.

“Apologies.”

“Water?” she offered a freshly filled cup. Their fingers brushed as he took the cup from her, noticing that she had drunk so eagerly that there was water across her upper lip, her cheeks and a slight dribble down her chin. With his free hand, he caught the dribble and she blushed with a smile. “Rebuilding this place is thirsty work.”

“You push yourself too hard.”

“Winter is here, Jon. We need to be ready.” Quickly peering around him, Sansa then darted to the larder and brought out a tray of bread. She had taken to pretending that they were lemoncakes as such luxuries as cakes, and lemons, were far too hard to come by now that the seasons had changed. “You and I have never experienced a winter such as what is coming, Jon. How can we expect to be prepared? And with the threat from beyond the wall! You and Bran need to tell me more about it.”

“I will spare you from such horrors.” By leading the Northern armies further north and keeping those horrors from ever getting close, he finished. She offered him some bread and he took it, pulling it apart in his hands rather than eating it.

“What is it?” she asked and he met her eyes, returning her question. “You wish to ask me something, Jon. I know that look upon your face.”

Did she? He wondered. They had been together since the Wall for less than a moon’s full turn. Had she learnt so much about him in that time or had she known him when they were children? “How did you make it through it all?”

“How did you come back from the dead?”

Sansa had not asked him about the events surrounding his death, until now and if he wanted honesty from her, Jon would first have to give her the same. “A red witch prayed to her God who gave her the power to return me.”

“Do you think you see him? In the darkness of your dreams?”

“She calls him the Lord of Light, so I do not think he can exist in that darkness.”

“Maybe the darkness is what protects you. It protects you from the men who betrayed you. The lies you’ve lived with. The dishonor of believing and being treated as the base born son of Lord Eddard Stark.” _And protects me from those oft ignored thoughts of you?_ He wondered. She turned away from him and he thought it was to end their conversation, but she continued quietly to start with. “I would imagine that I was a bird and I could fly. I would fly so high, up where the air is thin and I could barely breathe.” She turned to face him, but her eyes were closed and there was a peace on her face that he had not seen in years. The years of pain and torture, even of aging had melted off of her in her dreams. Even in a peaceful sleep, Jon never saw her as she stood before him now. “I’d fly up and onto the battlements, look down on the banners, the flayed man and I’d flap my wings to flee. I’d fly through the Godswood and peer at the Weirtree from above, circle it around and around until I felt dizzy and then,” she smiled, “I’d dash up, up into the sky. Until people became ants and the cold wind whistled, shivering all of my bones. That’s all I’d be able to hear – leaves rustling and then the cold, northern, winter winds. It kept trying to push me south, the winds, but I always fought it, pushing further and further North. Then I’d see the Wall and giants and sometimes Bran with Summer.” She opened her eyes, there was both a joy and a sadness that Jon could only hope for in himself, as the smile fell slightly from her lips. “Of course it was all pretend. I can’t fly. I can’t escape.”

“But you have,” he implored. “And I sometimes run as Ghost. Bran could become Hodor. Maybe you can fly.”

“A wolf who flies and a wolf who cannot die, well, the North is in safe hands.” And then, very simply, Sansa laughed.


	9. The First Night of the Full Moon

The full moon lit the room as Sansa stood at the window, staring out at it. As Jon entered the room without even a knock, he could not help but notice how large the moon looked in the clear night’s sky. There had been no fresh snow that day, he was glad for that fact. She turned her head slightly, lowering her chin as she asked him, “Has the new Maester arrived yet?”

He shook his head and began removing his boots. This is what had become of their routine although he would still leave his joining her until most of the castle was asleep before he wandered the battlements and yard before going to her chambers. It had been almost a whole moon since he had used his own chambers for sleeping. No one had yet to notice, not that Sansa seemed to care, but Jon knew that she should. No matter how much Sansa had grown, it was not proper for her bastard brother, as only a close inner circle knew of his supposed Targaryen parentage, to be in her bed every night no matter how innocent the pair of them could declare it to be. No one but a husband should be sharing her bed, Jon knew that, just as he knew that sometimes he wondered just how innocent his own thoughts were when it concerned Sansa. She turned back to staring at the moon. “I’ve had a raven back from Sam and he said they’ve sent one, but that there’s fighting in the south.” Though no one in Winterfell knew why there was fighting in the south once more.

“And they know nothing of the battle to come,” she commented ruefully, closing up the drapes and moving away from the window. There was a sadness upon her and he had no idea why.

“At least it keeps the Lannisters away from you.” They needed the North to be more stable, to have enough men to hold the North and not just Winterfell in case the Lannisters decided to take back their good-sister and make her stand trial for a murder she did not commit.

“Brienne declares that Ser Jaime vowed to my Lady Mother to return me home and not raise arms against the Starks again.”

“ _Ser_ Lannister is a Kingslayer. Oaths and vows mean nothing to him.” _Just as they meant nothing to me when I laid with Ygritte, rode for Robb and then for Winterfell._ He took off his outer clothing and pulled on the trousers and shirt he kept for sleeping in. “Why did you send our only Maester away?”

“He was the Bolton Maester.”

“Maesters have no allegiance to a house.”

“Oh, Jon, how naïve of you.” He could see the smile of a tease but her tone was harsh and true.

“There are still things you keep from me.”

She sighed long and deep, finally moving further away from the window and towards him near the bed. “He came to me, the Maester that served Winterfell for the Boltons, after my bedding and searched my room for moontea, prattling on about the Boltons needing an heir. Of course, as soon as they had an heir of suitable age, what good would I have been?” She shook her head. “Any time that Bolton allowed the Maester to tend to my wounds, all the sniveling man could say was that he should avoid my belly in case… in case…” And then all of the harsh tones and rigid body language fell away.

Jon was in front of her within a breath, holding her as she sobbed.

“That’s how I know,” she whispered and he pulled away far enough to listen whilst holding her face still and close to his. Their breath intermingled as it did during the night, as they fell asleep, as they awoke in the morning. Sometimes he wondered if they were a single entity now. “How I know that your mother was never forced by Rhaegar. She was a true wolf, like Arya, like you. None of you would ever give yourselves over to a monster.”

“You had no idea,” he objected.

“I should have! I should never have left.”

“This is not your fault,” he argued through her sobs. Her sobs continued until she fell in to a deep and fitful sleep upon his shoulder and it was not until the early hours that he managed to sleep. Sansa screaming and shouting, yelling at him to get out of her bed woke him in the early hours, whilst it was still dark out. Then, with a strength he could not have imagined, she dragged him out of the bed towards the door. The door opened and Brienne burst in with her sword drawn as Sansa pushed Jon from it and slammed the door in his face and without his boots.

 

**The Last Night of the Full Moon**

For three days Sansa had remained alone in her chambers, refusing all company and most of the food that Podrick had brought to her, but she stood now ready to speak with her brother and King. She had sent Brienne to gather them for dinner for just the three of them, but Sansa already knew that she would not be eating again. She still had no appetite. It had taken over an hour to get Brienne to sheath her sword, to stop swearing retribution on the King. Sansa would laugh about it if she had any sense of humour, but she had managed to calm Brienne and assure her that her cousin had merely been in her room, not in her bed, that he had done nothing improper at all. She was not sure that Renly’s former Kingsguard believed her at all, but Jon’s insistent knocking on her door the first night was proof that the King in the North still lived. Brienne had driven him away that night, too, Sansa had listened through her chamber door sobbing into her hands and Jon had not returned.

Smoothing down her very grey and Stark dress, Sansa walked in to the Hall, seeing about avoiding looking at Bran and Jon who were already sitting at the main table in their usual seats. Hers, to the right of Jon was of course empty. She stopped a few feet away from the table vaguely aware of confused looks on both her kin. This was the spot were common folk and visiting lords, men from the Night’s Watch and any one with a grievance stood to ask the three Starks for help and guidance, where a kingdom had stood to speak with her Lord father. Sansa had never considered how intimidating standing before the table could be. She felt their eyes on her and she began speaking without any pause. “To consolidate our power, our hold over the North, we must make marriage alliances for all of us. Of course, I can only make that suggestion for you, your grace, but it would be the most beneficial act for Winterfell. I shall start writing letters tomorrow.”

Curtseying to the two who loved her most, Sansa turned away from them and with the same height and elegance that she entered, Sansa left and returned to her room. She did not fail to hear Jon’s hurried footsteps following her. He slammed the door behind him and she turned slowly and precisely to look at him, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Was that necessary, your grace?”

“Was that meeting you called necessary, my lady?” he spat back. “Don’t grace me, Sansa, what the fuck is going on?” She flinched at his curse and he angrily growled in response. “Honesty. That’s what you promised me,” he vented.

“And are you always honest with me, your grace? How do I know I can trust you now?”

“Now?” he demanded, anger still dripping from him. She wondered if was the wolf in him or the dragon.

“Now that I am ready to sell on once more.”

“You are not grain or wheat. Or ale or a horse. You think I see you as an alliance to make? Against your will?” he demanded. “I am not your father, nor your mother, nor Littlefinger. I am…” he faltered then and she met his eyes defiantly.

“What? What are you? Who are you to me? You cannot even be honest about that can you?” She was rarely honest with herself if she told the truth. With two husbands she had shared a marital bed and neither had given her the comfort, love and respect that the man in front of her did. It scared her that she did not know what that meant.

He seemed to calm slightly once she met his eyes and he implored of her, “What is the matter?”

“Tell me something honest and true.”

There was only a slight pause before he answered. “The darkness that I see in my dreams, that I feel surrounding me, it’s the betrayal from my brothers. All of their stabs, but I worry… I worry that my soul left through those wounds.”

“King Joffrey made his men beat me in front of the Lords and Ladies of King’s Landing. Tore my clothes from my back and whipped me. The Imp and the Hound rescued me.”

“I betrayed my oath before riding South to win Winterfell for you. Before letting Wildlings passed the Wall. I fell in love with a Wildling. I broke my vows.”

“Littlefinger killed my Aunt Lysa and I told no one, not out of fear, but because it served _my_ best interests.” Sansa was unsure why she needed to admit these things or why she needed to hear them from Jon. Before he could speak again she continued. “I am too damaged to be anyone’s bride.”

“I am too scarred to be alive,” he growled and tore open his tunic and shirt, exposing his chest and all of the brothers’ wounds. Sansa gasped and reached out to touch him. He had always slept with a top on, for propriety, and Sansa was unsure when she had ever seen his chest. Perhaps in the summer, all of those years ago that now seemed like a lifetime. Her fingers traced a few of the scars, just as his had done to her in the same room. His hand sprung up and held hers to his chest, stopping its movements. “What happened the other night?”

She tried to flinch her hand away, but he kept her hand there, flattened and forced on to his bare chest, his scars and over his heart. Her lips dried as she felt his heart beating strongly under her hand. It felt reassuring and she thought she could see the same in his eyes. Darting her eyes away from his, she whispered, “I got my moon’s blood.”

She had awoken, after a fitful night’s sleep as the cramps had begun, to the realization that she had bled all over the bed. The cramps had played in to her dreams, preventing her from sleeping soundly. She had been embarrassed and mortified at first, dragging and pushing Jon from her room vaguely concerned that he, too, could have been covered in her blood. Then the realization had set in – exactly what her moon blood meant.

“And?” he questioned. Did he think she was trying to tell him it was her first? Surely he knew that she had been a woman grown for years now.

“The day that Theon and I jumped from here, it was a full moon. I had my last moon blood before escaping Bolton. Over two moons ago now.”

The realization of her words was obvious in his eyes and she avoided them again. “Did you think you were withchild?” Even now she could not help the tears that sprung to her eyes. “Oh, Gods, Sansa. That’s why you enquired about the Maester. Oh, Sansa, you should have told me.” His right hand was still covering hers to his chest, his left hand snaked up to her face and brought her head closer to his as he rested his forehead against hers.

“That the heir of Winterfell might be a Bolton?”

“You shouldn’t have worried alone.”

Pulling away from him, she blinked away her tears. “Well, at least I can now be married again.” There was no smile on her face unlike when her father had proposed her marriage to Joffrey. Before King’s Landing all that she had ever wanted was a Knight or prince or King and to wed them and raise their children.

“Is that what you want?”

“It is what is needed,” she answered coldly. “Not that I am an attractive prospect on paper or to see. At least I can now prove a child to be my new husband’s.”

“And who would you propose to marry?” he asked as he began to stalk up and down her chambers.

“A lord that we need to control. Or perhaps to reward for loyalty. Any willing to forsake their name for that of the Stark one. We need an heir, Jon.” There was a flicker in his eyes, gone as fast as it came. A tendril of naïve hope within her thought it could be what she took from her own sentence: we.

“Bran,” he objected with clear frustration. Sansa did not understand his frustration. Everyone in her life had been happy to sell her away, why was he so reluctant about it? Besides the fact that she herself absolutely hated the concept of being married away again.

“He may not be… able to.” In truth no one knew if Bran could still sire children.

“Well, we can marry him off, give him a few years to produce an heir and then rethink things.” In that moment, Jon had never seemed so regal to her. “I will never marry you off against your will, to anyone you do not trust and I will never make you leave Winterfell. Do you understand?” She truly did, standing in front of her brother-cousin, her King whose chest was still bare to her, she desperately hoped that there was another way for her path to follow. If Bran could not father a child then it would be left to her or Arya to continue the Stark name.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” she whispered and Jon nodded, pulling her into him. Her cheek pressed up against his chest. 

“Aye,” he whispered in to her hair. “And there always will be. I promise you.”

That night, Sansa slept with her head on the naked chest of her cousin come King and it was the most peaceful sleep she had since leaving King’s Landing, a thought which troubled her greatly.


	10. The Morning of Cocks and Betrothals

 

For most of the night, Jon’s mind had buzzed with thoughts. So many thoughts that sleep was difficult to find despite the beautiful red hair that he saw and smelt on his chest. It was the most intimate that they had ever been in over a moon of spending most of the nights together. Jon was finding it hard to reconcile exactly why he was slumbering with his cousin. It had been for comfort. He presumed that it still was although her terrors were far less consuming and his own were less violent and jittery. But he doubted that it was for comfort alone anymore. He looked at her and saw something more than kin. She was not his sister. In truth she never had been even when Lord Eddard Stark had been his father. There had always been a distance between the pair. He had seen how Robb had held her. At times, they had been the closest siblings – the first two born to Ned and Catelyn. Then Robb had grown older, closer to Jon. Bran and Arya had arrived and Jon instantly found a bond with them unlike with Sansa. It had never been there with the eldest Stark girl, the eldest now living Stark.

 

He watched her as she began to break her fast, sitting to his left as Bran sat to his right. She was ever the lady. She had always been fit to rule whether it was a keep, a castle or a kingdom with a Lord, Prince, Knight or King by her side and, in truth, she would rule her Lord or King; she already ruled Jon. She supped her drink and then cleared her throat.

 

“Bran, Jon and I have had further discussions.”

 

“After your outburst yesterday?” Bran asked innocently enough, the way only a brother could. The way that Jon still found himself able to talk to her, yet he was no brother. Jon shot a look at Bran warning him to back down.

 

“I must apologise. As long as we are keeping Jon’s Snow secret, we should concentrate on finding a bride for you first, Bran.”

 

“And who do you two think would seek to marry a cripple?”

 

“Someone loyal to House Stark,” Jon answered.

 

“Perhaps the Mormonts,” Sansa supplied and Bran put down his cup.

 

“I thought the three of us were supposed to make decisions together. After all, if anything I am the Lord of Winterfell. Not you, Sansa, nor you, Jon.” Jon opened his mouth to defend himself, but Bran continued over him. “It is one thing for you two to be sharing a bed, but quite another to be making decisions whilst in that bed. Perhaps it is more suitable to marry one of you off to a loyal house and stop dishonouring each other.”

 

“Brandon!” Jon snapped. “There is no dishonouring.” He was glad for the hair that covered his cheeks as felt a flush at the lie, at his desire to be able to dishonor.

 

“I am not sure, no matter how loyal the Mormonts have been,” Sansa responded in a quite and calm nature that both scared and awed Jon. “I do not believe that Lyanna Mormont would be suitable for Jon or as Queen in the North. Her flowering is also a few years away yet so no marriage could be consummated.”

 

“Will little Lyanna Bear Cub truly leave Bear Island for me, a cripple, broken Lord of nothing? Or is that what you desire, me gone?”

 

“Winterfell is yours brother,” Jon and Sansa said simultaneously and then looked at each other. Bran would always be his brother as much as Sansa would never be his sister. “I seek only to lead the North against the winter and then… I do not know, but I would take Winterfell from neither of you.”

 

“Bran, you are the last true born son of Eddard Stark and this home is yours. Riverrun, if Uncle Edmure and his son fail, is yours through the Tully line. I wish for neither and to take neither from you. I wish to live beside you and your Lady wife and your children. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell and I cannot do that.”

 

“How long before any wife of mine is not withchild and as such cuckolds me, the Stark name?”

 

“We can find someone we trust,” Jon assured him. “The Mormonts are trustworthy.”

 

Bran shook his head. “And when there is no heir for them or for us? The broken wolf and the last bear? That isn’t a song I’d like to hear.” Bran looked glum and Jon wondered what it must be like to doubt your ability to be a man. Did the Gods not want man to reproduce, to father sons and daughters and keep their blood alive? Did Bran question his ability to perform such a basic act?

 

“There is a house even more loyal and trustworthy,” Sansa said, spooning preserve on to some bread and taking a bite, chewing slowly and thoroughly with all eyes on her until she was able to continue. “House Reed has kept Jon and father’s secret for tens of years and Meera brought you home. Meera kept you alive after all of this time.”

 

“You think I should marry Meera?”

 

“If she and her father are willing.”

 

“She’s his only remaining child, too,” Bran pointed out. “Why would he marry his heir to someone who cannot have children?” Jon had never seen his younger brother so angry before. Bran glared at Sansa and Jon as Jon took a sup from his cup and Sansa took another long, slow bite of bread. As the Hall fell in to an uncomfortable silence, Bran glowering as Jon could remember Arya and Robb before him doing, Sansa spoke confidently across the void.

 

“Do you awaken with a stiff cock?” Jon spluttered out his drink, turning full on to his cousin as Bran stuttered over his words for a moment before Sansa continued. “If you do, then you can consummate a marriage.”

 

“And if I don’t want that cock in me or to be a breeding cow?” Meera demanded from the doorway before turning to leave. Sansa delicately dabbed at her mouth to tidy it from her meal and followed Meera, presumably to convince her of the match.

 

There was another long silence and Jon supped his ale once more.

 

“I never thought I’d hear my sister say cock,” Bran laughed as Jon sprayed his drink across the table once more.

 

GOT – GOT – GOT

 

Brushing the horse’s manes seemed to be therapeutic to her after everything that had happened and Sansa had no idea why. It was never something she had ever done before. Although she had spent ages brushing and stroking Lady’s fur as she would now with Ghost when they were inside. Ghost was not allowed near the horses and they didn’t have enough people within Winterfell to see to all of the jobs that needed performing. Sansa had learnt long ago that anyone could do anything. A lady could even empty her own chamber pot, she smiled as she realized that the Sansa Stark that had been a child within these walls would never have considered that appropriate.

 

“What’s amusing you?” She did not need to turn away from the horse to recognize Jon’s voice or recognizable smell as he entered the stables. She had not seen him since they had broken their fast together and Sansa had left to speak with Meera. Firstly Sansa had apologized to the younger lady for speaking behind her back and, even worse, planning a marital match without both parties being involved. Sansa knew what it was to be just a title, just a name, just a stake and a vessel to make withchild. That had never been Sansa’s intention she explained, she had simply wished to gauge Bran’s reactions to different ideas. Meera had accepted her apology and explanation and then Sansa had said _“For what it is worth, though, my lady. I think Bran would enjoy a marriage to your good self and I? I think I would quite enjoy having a good sister like you.”_

 

“Just thinking about how I was as a child.”

 

“You would never have been found in here.”

 

“More likely you would.” She continued brushing the horse, feeling his eyes on her back burning through to her flesh and she knew that he had something else to ask. She knew him too well, she feared. “What brought you here?” Finally she turned to face him and he was closer than she had thought. Her breath caught in her throat as he kept his hands behind his back, his eyes now on the straw covered floor. Was he nervous?

 

“When we were breaking our fast… How is it that you know of men in the morning?”

 

He could not say the word _cock_ to her face and it made her smile. This man in front of her, the King in the North, the man who had led armies beyond the wall and to take back Winterfell, the man who had finally made her feel safe as no one had since her father, could not say the word cock. Sansa had left Winterfell for King’s Landing in the hopes of marrying a Prince who would treat her as a lady deserved. Now she was so far from being a lady, but her cousin saw her as only that. It caused a flutter in her heart.

 

“Ah, yes, I apologise for the bluntness. I’ve learnt that sometimes acting differently, shocking people gets a better effect. Sorry if I offended you, your grace.” He rolled his eyes at her using his title and she smirked, knowing that he hated being a King, being a grace or anything other than Jon.

 

“We have promised to be honest with each other, have we not?”

 

“Yes,” she replied with genuine curiosity.

 

“The morning…” She found herself blushing at his inability to find the correct words. “How do you know of it?”

 

“I have been married twice, I have lain with men and awoken beside them.”

 

“The Imp and Bolton?” There was a pained look on his face at speaking those two names and Sansa took a deep breath before answering him.

 

“Although Lord Tyrion never forced his upon me, we did, on occasion sleep side by side. He took more pleasure in whores than I.”

 

“What a gentlemen,” Jon mumbled under his breath.

 

“More so than Bolton,” she corrected and Jon’s eyes flashed guiltily to her own. “Although I barely slept when he chose to remain in our marital bed all night.”

 

“It scares me when you speak so coldly.” Sansa looked at her cousin wondering if he meant the statement hurtfully or was just stating the truth. He seemed saddened by his words.

 

“Only about things which hurt,” she responded after a few beats, ignoring the fact that her voice was still as cold as the snow that surrounded them outside. “I will never be pained again.”

 

“I promise you, Sansa,” he said, taking her hands in his. She stared down at their joined hands and wondered if their warmth could melt her voice. “You will never be married again.”

 

“Unless we need an Heir?” The harshness was still there and she suddenly hated it.

 

“We?” he smiled at her and her face softened in response.

 

“House Stark,” her voice was suddenly a whisper and she fought the blush that reddened her cheeks, turning away to hide herself from him. “Technically you may be considered House Targaryen.”

 

“I would rather be a Stark.” His words were barely heard, his voice gruff and low and Sansa suddenly and desperately wanted them both to be something else.

 

“Perhaps we should…”

 

“Yes?” Fighting the urge to turn back and face him, Sansa could only wonder if his thoughts were the same as hers. Though they should not be. They had been brought up as brother and sister, no matter how hard she had fought it. Whatever way that she was beginning to feel for him, he would never reciprocate.

 

“Maybe our night terrors have passed?”

 

Her face and voice hardened once more, but not from trying to keep past pain out. This time it was to stop the pain that she could already feel snaking around her. “If you wish, your grace.”

 

“Do not say it like that, Sansa.” How dare he use her name?

 

“Say what and how?” Anger was seething within her. “You are my King and I must do as you say.”

 

“You are my-”

 

“Do not say sister!” she hissed far louder than she had intended. “If you do not wish to comfort and protect me, that is your choice. If it is some misguided notion of propriety. Well,” she moved to the door and stormed out as she said: “I have already felt your morning blood many times in the past few months and it matters nothing.”

 


	11. The Night of the Wolves

Despite his protests, or attempts at such, Jon still found himself at the door to Sansa’s chamber after their morning discussion. Discovering that she had felt his morning blood had frozen his insides. She was a lady and highborn and someone to be cared for, not someone who should feel a bastard’s morning blood when all she sought was comfort from her nightmares. _What would Robb do?_ Robb would not awaken with his cock stabbing his sister in her back. Then again, Sansa was Robb’s sister, but no longer Jon’s which was Jon’s problem. He kept repeating and asking himself what would Robb do when the simple truth was that it did not matter what Robb or Bran would do with regards to Sansa. They were her brothers. Jon Snow was not.

That made their night times worse.

So far no one had mentioned or discovered how Sansa and Jon spent their nights together, how they _innocently_ spent their nights no matter what random impure thoughts flittered in to his own mind, he would keep them innocent nights, but they had a shield of defense if it were questioned. They were brother and sister, seeking comfort and safety from each other. He would do the same to Bran, as far as anyone else would be aware. As would Sansa, he was sure, because no matter which of the random impure thoughts that he had, Jon was sure that she would never have anything of the sort. She was a highborn lady, not a baseborn bastard. But, cousins sharing a bed all night, every night? There was no way that thought would not scandalize her. Jon knew that the nights had to stop. For her reputation.

Not because of the increasingly impure thoughts that he was having. No, not at all. _What would Robb do?_

She opened the door and looked almost startled that it was him standing there.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and turned to leave.

“Wait!” She stopped him with a slight step out of her chambers. Realising that she was dressed in only her thin night dress, Jon roughly pushed her back in to her chambers. Once he shut the door behind him, Jon could not help but realize how close they stood and that she had a look of shock at him man-handling her.

“I apologise. I just did not want anyone to see you… undressed.”

“I am not undressed.” There was a smile on her face and it made him feel relaxed, smiling in response, but there was something hanging heavily in his chest. “I was not expecting you. After this morning. Or, I was expecting you, but am unused to you knocking. You usually just enter. As if these were your chambers, too.”

“Aye, I am sorry about that.” Jon could not remember when he had ceased knocking again, probably soon after he saw all of her hidden scars and bruises; her body held few secrets from him now.

“About what?” He questioned her with a look and furrowing of his brow. Her room was warm. Was it usually this warm? He felt woefully over dressed and that she was equally overdressed and underdressed. He should not have come to her chambers. He should turn and leave. “Are you sorry about our discussion this morning? About declaring that we should not comfort each other? About knocking? Not knocking? Sharing my chambers as if we were-”

“We cannot keep seeking comfort as we do,” he interrupted, fearing her reaction to the end of her own sentence. He knew what he was starting to feel was wrong. There was absolutely no need to find out how she thought about it, no doubt she would feel repulsion and utter disgust. “It is improper for you, my lady.”

“No titles, Jon.” It was a beg and it pained something within his chest.

“It is improper, Sansa, you are a highborn lady. Even as a true brother, you should not be sharing your bed with anyone but a Lord husband.”

“I am a lady twice wed and once bedded. I am too tainted for anyone to desire me as a wife.”

“Not with your moon’s blood.” She was too high out of his reach and, even if she were closer, she would never want him. She had never wanted him in her life, not until he was the last one left, the only person that could truly keep her safe.

“So you do wish to marry me off?” He thought the words were said in anger until he saw the glistening of her eyes. Gently he grabbed her by her shoulders, her skin was soft under his battle worn hands and he bit his own lip briefly at the memory of mornings waking with his mouth too close to that silky, soft skin, of nights holding her as she cried, dropping kisses to her shoulders as he held her and she clung back on to him.

“No. Never,” he vowed. “But people will start to talk, no matter how late I arrive or early I leave, someone will notice and you are a lady, the Lady of Winterfell and to all of those people, my sister. Our bannermen need to respect us both, not believe us to have the morals of Lannister twins and Targaryen Kings.”

“Jon, they will never respect me.” She cupped his face in her warm hands and he wanted her to mean something so much more. All she wanted was protection from him. “I married the enemy. Then the traitor. I carry the Stark name only until another man forces his _name_ upon me.”

“I will not allow it,” he whispered as his voice failed him and he felt her move closer. Or had his body failed him, too, moving towards her against his own thoughts. Although his impure thoughts probably meant that his body should be copying. He wanted to kiss her. Properly. In the moons that they had been back together, he had kissed her head, her cheeks, her hands and shoulders, once even the nape of her neck as they lay entwined from her terrors and she had kissed him. Her kisses were different and usually given to him in thanks or joy. A kiss to the hands when he held her hands, or to the cheek when he agreed to something and she smiled like the child he remembered from moons ago. Once, after one of his terrors, she had held him and sprinkled kisses all over his face. All he wanted in the moment was to finally kiss her lips like just before Bran returned, no matter how chaste he would have to keep it. He could never trust himself to remain chaste with her.

“Then comfort me, if it matters not.” He swallowed her words, their mouths so close together. Without conscious thought, his hands slid up from her shoulders, fingertips grazing the back of them and along past her long, gracious neck. Her eyes closed and he felt the gooseflesh that his fingers left in their path. His fingers trembled a pause, had her eyes closed in fear, in acceptance because men took what they wanted and she had learnt to acquiesce? Until her fingers began moving in his beard, moving upwards closer to his ears. “If you do not want my comfort, do not trouble yourself.”

Her voice was just a breath on his mouth and he wanted to somehow swallow them up truly. “I do,” he answered, wondering what he was really agreeing to. Her eyes opened and his breath hitched. Could she have the same thoughts as him? Did that make it right? “Sansa.”

“Jon,” she responded quietly and he wanted to believe that it was her consenting to his thoughts. Or at the least consenting to him telling her his thoughts. Suddenly her eyes and head pulled away from him, turning to her window and she repeated her whisper of his name but this time it was laced with fear. His eyes followed hers, dropping an arm away from her. Upon seeing the shadow at the window, he stepped in front of her as a personal shield, drawing his sword. How had someone got this far into Winterfell, up to Sansa’s chamber window and then almost in to her room without Jon, after the guards, not even hearing?

“Please, your grace, don’t stick me with the pointy end.” A smile crept on to his face as the hooded shadow pounced in from the window ledge as agile and quiet as a cat. His sword lowered and the shadow’s hood followed suit revealing his younger sister. Arya Stark had returned to Winterfell.

“Arya, you scared the shit out of me!” he greeted, stepping away from Sansa and to the younger Stark. “You never said you were journeying here.”

“You could have come in the door,” Sansa smiled, moving to stand next to Jon.

“You could put some clothes on,” Arya laughed and rushed at her sister first. It took Jon by surprise to see them embrace, a blush and a smile on Sansa’s face. They parted and Arya looked between Jon and Sansa before speaking, “What is going on here?”

“Come,” Jon said grabbing his younger sister by the hand. “Let’s wake Bran and share our stories.”

“Bran!”

“Aye,” he laughed, ruffling the top of her head. He left Sansa’s chamber with Arya under his arm, slightly aware of Sansa following a few steps behind after finding her cloak. As they stormed into Bran’s chambers, Sansa still a few steps behind, and clambered in to his bed, Jon could already see it. They each sat there, under the covers and began telling stories. Not stories like Old Nan had told, these were their own stories from the moons since the Starks had been separated, and as they each spoke, laughing and with a few tears, Jon could see the difference. The love he felt as he watched Arya, listened to her, saw her defenses cloud her face, heard her laugh, was the love for a sister. 

It was not the love that he felt for Sansa.


	12. The Days That Followed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the huge delay, life has gotten in the way! Going to try and do better! This chapter has a moment between Jon and Sansa that I saw in my head before I fully started writing chapter 1! Oh, and thank you for all the reviews, I will get around to the ones I haven't yet replied to! Promise, thank you, I love you all!

Huffing in abject despair, Sansa continued rifling through the random papers that she had. A raven had come earlier and it had disturbed her. It made her not wish to sleep. So far she was the only one to have read it. It had been addressed to the Boltons. She found it odd that on the same night that Arya finally returned to Winterfell, they then receive a raven with awful news. Why was it that there could not just be good news? Had they already worn out their quota of good news? Surely the pain that the Starks had endured was still not repaid in niceties?

The door opened and in walked Jon, Ghost padding in beside him and straight up to Sansa. She did not hesitate from her papers to even stroke the direwolf and she sensed his frustration as the wolf began to nuzzle at her side. She ignored him. “What keeps you up?”

Had he gone to her chambers first? Had he planned on spending the night with her, as they were now so accustomed but apparently he had decided should be stopped? Or had he come here to avoid her and run straight in to that which he avoided? Sighing again at the papers and leaning back in the large chair, Sansa finally looked up at her cousin, her protector and wondered how he was going to react to the raven. They had barely seen each other since Arya’s return. Their conversation had not been concluded and Sansa felt as if she were in some form of limbo, for the first time since reclaiming Winterfell she actually felt uncomfortable with Jon, the very person that she had felt so at ease with in that time. Arya creeping through her window had, after the initial shock and fear, overjoyed Sansa, but she had noticed immediately how everything shifted with Jon. Perhaps it was because of the conversation they had been sharing, or perhaps it was simply because Arya had returned. The way that Jon treated Arya was not the way he treated her, Sansa could see that as he had ruffled his sister’s hair and left for Bran’s room. Sansa herself had followed a few moments later, after donning a cloak to cover herself and to compose herself. Jon had not needed such time for composure for he had never lost his composure. The four of them had talked and laughed for most of the night, waking only when Pod had opened the door a look of confusion on his face at all four Starks in one bed, fast asleep. Arya had been on one side, Bran still almost in the center of what was his bed, then there was Sansa, her head on Jon’s chest where he sat along the edge of Bran’s bed, his hand still on top of hers on his clothed chest.

She would miss him if he truly stopped sharing her bed with him. Perhaps the sister he had always cared for more needed her big brother far more than Sansa did anymore. There was a coldness on her sister’s face that Sansa could not begin to understand. She moved differently. She was adamant that no one could know she had returned. Arya had gone so far as to pull a dagger out on poor Pod when he stumbled in on all four of them. Jumping up in Pod’s defence, Jon had left Sansa to fall from where she had been on him and so she knew that things had shifted. She should be willing to share her cousin, but it already pained her to think of it.

“We have received a raven from King’s Landing, for the Boltons. They are clearly unaware that we have taken back the castle.”

“What does King Tommen have to say for himself?”

“King Tommen is dead. The Sept is burnt to the ground. Queen Cersei, first of her name, has taken the Iron Throne.”

“Cersei?” Jon questions. “She has no claim.”

“Who does? Other than you.” The Baratheons were all gone.

“Queen Margaery?”

“I would assume she is dead. Cersei held no love for her at all, likely taking the throne as there is no one to oppose her. The Lannisters, the crown have declared war on Highgarden and the Dornish. They have asked for the Boltons to send them men.” His eyes met hers and she tried to keep her composure but she could taste bile in her throat. There was an unsettled feeling deep within her stomach. Keeping his gaze, she spoke: “They will not rest with Starks in Winterfell. They believe I killed Joffrey.”

“We hold the Twins now.” Arya had filled them in on how Walder Frey, most of his sons, too, had met their maker and then Edmure had been freed. Riverrun was then quickly taken back as the Lannister opposition had returned to King’s Landing. Edmure Tully had put his most trusted bannerman at Riverrun, remaining at the more strategic Twins himself with his Frey bride and baby son used as a means to control the remaining Freys. “You are safe.”

“We need those very men to man the Wall.”

“For now the Wall holds. You are a greater priority. Winterfell is the greater priority.” Tearing her eyes from his, unsure of what he meant anymore, Sansa stood up and put a hand to her stomach.

“My insides churn,” she winced and he quickly moved towards her, placing his large hand over hers. Looking at him as he watched her with concern, Sansa suddenly had an image of them standing as they were, his hand covering hers on her belly, swollen with child. She blushed at her own improper thoughts and stepped away from him. She could fight the churning and acid no longer and turned to vomit into the nearest bucket. He was with her the whole way, holding her hair and stroking her back until she sat on the warm floor, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. When had all of her lady graces slipped? Was it only with him? “What if they call the Vale to their aid?”

“Then the Vale will say no. They have stood for us and the battle that comes.”

Oh, her dear sweet Jon. “Littlefinger will do whatever serves him best. He cares not for the monsters beyond the Wall. If the Lannisters can give him the Iron Throne that he desires, he will turn on us.”

“Even if he wants you there with him?” Jon’s voice was a whisper beside her own.

“He sold me to the Boltons and their depravity because he hoped he could claim me back later. What he wants of me by his side, I truly do not know because he cannot love me. I am not that naïve to believe that of him.”

“He wants your beauty, I would wager,” Jon answered truthfully. “He wants your Lady Mother. The resemblance is clear still. Although,” he added with a chuckle. “You have a strong Stark look on your face when you are stubborn and willful.”

“Beautiful, stubborn and willful?” she laughed. “Well, who wouldn’t desire that?”

Standing up, he held a hand out to her and she allowed him to pull her to standing. “Come, you need sleep.”

Sansa paused, allowing her hand to slip slightly from his grasp. He turned back to face her, a question on his face. She wanted to ask him if he was taking her to her chambers and was going to remain with her. Or would he leave her there. She would rather remain in the solar, eventually falling asleep in the big, old and uncomfortable chair at the desk than restlessly try and sleep in her bed alone. The words failed her.

His hand re-gripped hers, tightly and pulled her along behind him, offering her a quick smile before he turned to their path. After opening the door to her chamber, he followed her in and closed the door behind them, kissing her on her forehead as he quickly shed his outer clothing and climbed in to her bed. Rolling on to his side so that his back was to her, he gave her the privacy she deserved and Sansa quickly got ready for sleep, too. She paused as she was climbing into the bed, realising that there was no way that she considered the bed to be hers. It was their bed and she had no idea how to process that simple thought. After dimming the lights, Sansa laid in the bed, curled away from Jon simply to shield her confusion. In the darkness she heard Jon roll over on to his back and she agonised over whether or not to roll to him. He had been adamant about them not even sharing a bed any longer. Was this him meeting the middle ground? She could spend all night deliberating and wondering, eventually she gave in to sleep, hoping that the morning would bring her fresh answers.


	13. The Green Wedding

The Green Wedding

With Arya’s arrival, Sansa had decided that they would bring Bran and Meera’s wedding forward and set a deadline for just seven days. _Seven days!_ Jon had repeated. _And how many people can we possibly try and feed at this wedding feast?_ Sansa had shaken her head with a smile. _Nothing too grandiose._ No, not at all, Jon thought in retrospect. Howland Reed had responded to the raven requesting the union of their families with some cryptic comment about how he already knew and had given permission long before Bran was even aware of it. No one else from House Reed would be making the journey up from the Neck. Not now that Winter was spreading down Westeros. Wedding planning had seemed to give Sansa more to focus on and more reason to be busy all through the days and until later at night than her usual. Or she was trying to avoid him, Jon was unsure. Their conversation that had been interrupted for the amazing arrival of Arya was still unfinished. Neither had spoken about it since at all and despite his fears about continuing their closeness, Jon was still in her bed every night. Some of the closeness had passed and that pained Jon. They laid in bed, separate, each on the furthest edges as if neither wanted the other present. She still had her night terrors, with a similar frequency and he would always hold her until the fear and sadness passed. They no longer fell asleep again holding each other. He had not woken up holding her, seeking her out in their sleep. There was an ache within him every time they slept in the same bed and she was not touching him. He felt as if he missed her, though she was still right beside him. It no longer felt as comforting to him.

In fact, his own night terrors had increased. Every night in the week since, at least once per night, sometimes twice, he would wake, drenched in sweat and panting. She always sat up beside him, a hand on his chest as she laid him back down and cuddled into him until he fell back asleep, always back on her own side of the bed when he next awoke.

Sitting in the Great Hall with his family as they each broke their fast, Jon felt exhausted. The terrors the night before had been far worse than usual. Sansa had even questioned him on them in the dark, her head and hand on his chest, his arm wrapped around her and holding her shoulder tightly to him. _“The darkness, the black is still invading me,” he had told her in the safety of the real dark. “It stabs me. A thousand knives, each leaching out my soul until I am a husk of nothing. And then… and then…”_

_“And then what?”_ Her voice had been quiet but strong as if unphased by his fears so he had not hidden from her.

_“Then it takes you. A golden knife, turned red from where it takes you. And something slips, it’s as if you’re falling. But I know not what you’re falling from. You’re slipping out of my grasp and I cannot get a grip on to you. I wake once you’re gone.”_

For all of her own fears about the Lannisters coming to claim her, the Boltons returning from death and torturing her, Littlefinger stealing her away from Winterfell, it was him that now dreamt of her being taken. It was him that feared it just as much and despite all of her own fears, her own scars and pain, in a quiet whisper, in the dark, she had reassured him. “I am here. Always.” For as long as he could possibly manage it, his arms had held on to her tightly after that night terror, but she had still rolled away from him in her sleep. Even her slow, peaceful breathing on his chest had not been enough of a comfort to allow him to fall asleep. Instead he had held her for as long as possible before she left him. Sleep had evaded him until the early hours and so he sat, breaking his fast, wishing that there was not another day of wedding planning ahead of them all.

“Is every one aware of what they need to do today?” Sansa asked of the others as she cleared away her plates. Even when there were people willing to help out with servant duties, Sansa seemed to prefer doing more menial tasks herself now. Their brother and sister groaned and nodded, just how they would have done to their Lady Mother. “And, Arya, do stop acting like a cat and jumping all over the walls. They are not all stable yet and we do not need you knocking any more down.”

“You’re not my bloody Mother!” Arya responded in a grumbled way that Jon was sure was simply an evolution of her childhood behaviours.

“No, but I know that Winterfell in winter needs strong walls.”

Arya opened her mouth to object, probably to declare she would leave again. She often made that threat, but Jon was not convinced it was simply a harmless threat. Arya did not seem to be happy being so stationary as she was within a castle, within a family. Jon stopped her words. “Arya, you need to help out. Do as your sister asks, please.”

Scraping her chair back along the floor and leaving her breakfast half finished, Arya stood in a defiant mood. “Mother _and_ father reincarnated!” And then she stormed out.

Sansa sighed, moving to tidy up Arya’s plates, bowls and cups. “Some things never change.” As Sansa disappeared into the kitchen, Jon could not help but think how wrong she was. Arya had changed the most. No matter how much he loved her, there was something out of place with her within their family unit. He wondered if it was simply a matter of time to find her role within Winterfell, but he worried that whatever had happened during her time away, she was irrevocably changed. Doubt clouded him as she never spoke about what happened after she left King’s Landing with Yoren. Jon dearly wished that Yoren had made it to the Wall with Arya, dearly wished that Yoren had made it out with Sansa too. It could have saved them both so much. Maybe Arya would open up one day, he doubted it, instead of worrying over something that he had no control over at all, Jon instead focused on the day ahead. Bran, his youngest brother-cousin was getting wed. Not that he had ever imagined it before, but from his seat at the high table, Jon did have a sudden thought of how Bran’s wedding should have gone.

Jon would have been in the Night’s Watch, called down to Winterfell alongside Benjen depending on the Ranger’s fate, possibly still subjected to the tables at the back, where Lady Catelyn would not have been able to see him. Lord Stark would have allowed Bran to marry for love, Jon was sure of that. Robb would have wed for power, the next Lord in Winterfell. Maybe a Northern Lady if Ned got his way, more Southron if Lady Catelyn had hers. Sansa would have been married off to the Baratheon prince even if Ned had remained in Winterfell. Had there ever been a chance for her to marry anyone other than Royalty? She had always wanted to go South, to live South in the warmth whether it was in King’s Landing or perhaps further South where all the sons were pretty and the flowers bloomed all year long.

Sansa moved past him, gathering up more dishes and Jon caught her wrist gently. With a smile, she sat down next to him. “Arya will calm down,” she said reassuringly to him.

“Mayhaps. I just… I was thinking on weddings.”

“Yes?”

“Would you have ever married from the North?” he asked without any preamble, feeling and seeing the hesitation on her face. No matter what Arya or Littlefinger or anyone else said about Sansa’s resemblance to Catelyn, there was a Northern look to her; one that Jon did not remember seeing on the face of the girl that left Winterfell all of those years ago.

“No.” A heavy sigh filled the gap between her words as she began to fidget her hands in her lap. “I didn’t want to be in Winterfell, the North, not even the Riverlands from what I saw. I wanted a prince or a Lord with a Keep in the sun. I wanted the stories the songs sing.”

“And now?” he heard himself ask. “If you could be such an age again, make a different decision with the knowledge that you have.”

A smile played on her lips, playful turning to sad in an instant. “I would tell my younger self to chose a good Northern Lord, to not be taken in by those songs. But it would do no good.” She shook her head. “Father could never have refused the King’s request. My fate was sealed the day the rebellion was won.”

“Are there any Northern Lords that you… you might…”

“None.” She answered without him finding his own words. “Even with Bran wedding this eve, every lord is aware that if he cannot father heirs, mine will be. I hold too much power and too much risk. Until Bran has heirs and I am less valuable, I could trust no Lord to not try and take my claim on Winterfell. Although as you are King in the North, perhaps no one would dare abuse my station. Yourself?”

“Marry? Me?” He laughed. Once upon a time, Jon might have had a dream of marrying, holding a small keep, farming, and having a wife, hopefully some children, but that had always been a dream when he slept. The Night’s Watch vows were clear. Since declaring his watch was over, Jon had not even considered other aspects of his vows. 

“Yes, you,” she laughed. “You’re a King. We could make a great alliance marrying you to someone powerful enough.”

“Except we have all of the North and Riverlands. Unless you are proposing a marriage between myself and your cousin, Robin. Or to Littlefinger himself.”

She matched his smile. “Of course not.”

“Perhaps I could appease the Lannisters and propose wedding the Southern Queen.”

She swatted at his arm. “Do not joke about such things. Although, if she has declared war on the Dornish and Highgarden, there may be a maid or two amongst the Sand Snakes. Or the Queen of Thorns.”

Shaking his head with a laugh, Jon waited for the laughter to dry up. “Unless the North truly needed it, I could not marry for such a reason. I was not born for that.”

“Because you still believe yourself born to be a bastard of Eddard Stark. You are not.”

“Aye, but Father did what he did to keep me safe.”

“And delivered Arya and I into the hands that would kill you.” Her words stung him and they sat in silence until Sansa stood. “You are the King, the choice is yours, but, if we still stand after the Lannisters, Littlefinger and the Night’s King, then Ladies will approach you. As Lords will approach me and we may not get any more choice than Father did when he made your mother a promise and bid as his King later ordered.” And she left him, sitting alone as people busied themselves around him, preparing for the wedding.

\-----

Watching the dancing, Sansa knew there was a smile on her face but she had trouble feeling it, trouble in even knowing it was on her face. Many moons ago, Sansa had loved everything that came with a wedding, or a simple feast, not any longer. She had attended too many weddings where things were not simple and joyous occasions. There was Joffrey’s and his choking, her own wedding to Tyrion and then to Bolton. And of course she had heard far too many details about her Uncle Edmure’s wedding. It really was enough to put anyone off any further nuptials. It had been a beautiful wedding, even Sansa with her dislike of weddings could not deny that. Meera, for a crannogman who seemed better suited to her bow than any kind of dress, had been stunning in her bridal dress, sharing laughs with Arya before the ceremony. They seemed to have much in common, Arya and Meera, far more so than Sansa had with her sister or good-sister, and she hoped that it made Arya feel at home. Gods knew that Arya did not seem happy being at home with her family. If Meera could change that and make Bran happy after keeping him alive beyond the Wall, Sansa would give Meera everything she possessed. Even if the new Lady of Winterfell looked out of place in her dress and dancing across the Hall with her King. 

Jon was the only person who had asked her to dance and Sansa was still at a loss as to why. They both hated dancing; Sansa could see it from where she sat personally refusing anyone that asked her to dance. She glanced over at Arya, sitting two seats away and alternating between moping in to her ale and glaring out over the Hall as if waiting for someone to die. Maybe that was just Sansa’s constant thought. Arya always hated events such as these, Sansa was fully aware of that. Despite their frequent clashing since the younger Stark’s return, Sansa refused to believe that Arya was right whenever she compared Sansa to their Lady Mother. Sansa held only love within her for Lady Catelyn, but no matter how great their physical similarities, Sansa refused to believe that she was like her mother anymore. Where once Sansa had dreamed of the South, of the life that Catelyn had been closer to – with knights and jousts, visits to the capitol and further south – it was no longer what she wanted. Catelyn had married to the North, had tried to become of the North, but had remained Southron in truth. It had taken her most of her life, but Sansa truly felt Northern.

“Arya,” she called for her sister’s attention. “No one will notice if you were to leave. All eyes are on the bride.”

“For you to chastise me on the morrow?”

“I will likely follow you soon.” Arya narrowed her eyes at Sansa, considering her and then nodded with a smile, quietly disappearing from the room. With a sigh, Sansa looked back at all of the movement and noise coming from the Hall. She wanted it to warm her heart, seeing her home almost back to its former glory. Her heart was still cold.

“I do not understand these… Southron weddings!” Tormund declared with a growl as he seemed to slam himself down in the seat between Sansa and where Arya had been.

“What would you rather have seen?” she asked, knowing how the Wildlings approached marital matters. “Would you rather Bran have stolen Meera?”

“Aye,” he nodded, gulping down some ale. “By the way I heard it, she stole him.”

“Mayhaps that is the better way,” she smiled.

“What happened to you, Lady Sansa,” she quirked an eyebrow at him calling her a lady, “that was no stealing and bedding.” He took another long drink. “Maybe one day another bastard’ll do it better.” Sansa felt her cheeks warm and opened her mouth to say something, when instead he continued. “Ah, there is a lady I’d like to steal.” Standing and walking away without another word, Sansa followed his gaze and saw Brienne of Tarth, unable to prevent her own smile and slight shake of her head. That Wildling was smitten. Glancing quickly around, Sansa decided that it was time that she could make an escape, but as she stood and turned, she came face to face with Ser Davos.

“My lady,” he greeted and she smiled in return. “You haven’t danced yet.”

“Weddings are not what they once were, ser.”

“Aye, I can understand that. You Lords and Ladies miss out on wedding for love.”

“Do you miss your wife?”

“Aye, I do. But without the Wall and protecting the realm, she would surely not be safe.” A frown furrowed her brow. “Do not think on such things. Have you heard the whispers, my lady?”

“What whispers?”

“You surpass the bride in beauty and radiance.”

Her eyes cast downward. She had half a mind to slash off half her face, marring her apparent beauty. It would do nothing, she knew, men would still call her beautiful even if it were only for her birthright. “That was not my intention.” A laugh caught her ears, Sansa looked over at Meera, laughing at something with Bran and Lord Manderly. “There is none more radiant than a bride so clearly happy on her wedding day.” _At last a wedding with smiles._

“Aye,” he agreed. “The King will be next, will he not?” Her back straightened and her lips formed a thin, straight line. “Every King needs a Queen.”

“As the long night approaches, I do not think it will matter. I do not think the title of King will matter much and we shall all just hope to be alive in spring.” In truth, Sansa had no idea exactly what was to come, but if the stories of Old Nan had any truth in them, Sansa knew that this winter was not going to be easy by any means. “If you would excuse me, ser.” 

Less than two steps outside of the Hall, Sansa heard Jon’s voice calling to her and she stopped and turned, unable to put a smile on her face. “Leaving so soon?” he asked, approaching her. “If I have been made to sit through,” he waved his arm around wildly, “all of this. And I have danced. Gods, have I danced. Then you, my lady, cannot just walk away and leave.”

“Do you see now what you escaped all of your younger years?” It was meant as a jest, but her lips would not smile and she then feared she had upset him.

“What has made you leave early? I saw you speaking with Tormund and Ser Davos. Has someone upset you, my lady? It is a happy day, let me make it happy for you.”

“Weddings and feasts,” she sighed, “are not so happy in my experience.” He gave a slight nod of his head and she saw pity in his eyes. Pity for her. It was how so many others looked at her and she suddenly thought back to her earlier conversation with Jon and to Davos’ words. “Do you desire a Queen?” Her words were quick, her eyes cast down as more words continued to spill from her mouth. “Earlier I was enquiring more about if there were any Northern Lady that you could imagine yourself with. Someone suited to you, perhaps. But what I mean to ask, now, is do you desire a lady wife, someone to share your life with and have a Queen on the throne next to you?”

His mouth opened and closed again like a fish caught and gasping for water. She forced the tightest of smiles and nodded her head as goodnight and left him standing in a corridor. Her feet hurried her way back to her own chambers were she quickly shut the door and almost threw herself face down on her bed. It was the thought of him marrying, of him deciding to take the seat of King away from Winterfell now that Bran was secure, or when spring came. It was the feeling of dread and awful hiccups it brought to her stomach when she thought of his Queen breaking her fast, seated next to him, sharing their days and talks together. It was how her heart ached to think of the Queen that he would hold throughout the night rather than her.

Tears involuntarily began shedding from her eyes straight on to her bedding. The thoughts made no sense. Aside from after a night terror, they were literally only sharing the same bed, that made her heart ache more so and more tears to flow without pressure. Before their damn truncated conversation and the nights that had followed, Sansa had felt almost happy. It made no sense. How could she want more from her cousin? How could she miss him when he was still within space of feeling his body’s heat and hearing his every breath? The need that she had to be close to him, Sansa had never felt that kind of emotion for anyone and she did not understand it. This was not how Lady’s were. Lady’s were told who to wed, made to maybe love their Lord Husband, molded into something with him with no need or desire to have or be met. Was that not how it had been with Lord Tyrion? Told to wed him, told to share his bed in the hopes that she could see how good of a man he was to her when he waited patiently for her. Would she have grown to need him beside her each night? Would she have developed the need to be in his arms as they slept?

“Is that an odd Southron way of sleeping?” Without even thinking, Sansa turned and sat up immediately at Jon’s question. The smile on his face fell as he rushed to kneel in front of her, his hands flying to her cheeks and his thumbs each began wiping away her tears. Her hands flew up to her tear stained face. She had not fully realized that she was crying. Just as she could not realize what her thoughts were. “Sansa, what happened at the feast?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head, his eyes told her that he did not believe her. “Truly, nothing,” she reaffirmed, putting her right hand over his left on her cheek. “I…” She took a deep breath. “I miss you.” It was a whisper when she finally spoke again, so soft and quiet that she barely heard it.

“I am right here.”

Once more the tears began without any warning as Sansa said, “I miss your arms holding me as we sleep. And I know, I know, that it should not be and it cannot last, that one day you will have a Queen in my place. No matter how I resist a marriage, you will not be able to.”

“Sansa…” His head moved forwards, his forehead resting against hers. It was like their first few days together except something felt so different. He was impossibly close to her, their breaths intermingling as they seemed to breathe in time together. His hands on her face kept her from moving, though she doubted her body would even respond to any command to move. He was still wiping at the tears that continued to fall uncontrollably. There was something so soft in his touch, the way that his thumbs were moving that contradicted with the roughness, the callouses and scars from his time at the Wall. It made her catch her breath and his eyes searched hers. She could see the concern that he always had, but she saw something that reminded her of Bolton, of Tyrion, of Littlefinger, but there was none of the accompanying pain or unease that she felt with the other three. It was what she saw as their desire for something that she could give, something different for all of them. He was not hurting her, there was no pain to accompany the way that he looked at her.

His thumbs were rubbing back and forth, yet her tears had stopped and she thought of turning towards one. The desire she could see in his eyes was mirrored by her sudden desire to have his thumb on her lips and she felt her body flush, felt her cheeks heat under his cooler hands. Confusion filled her because she was too used to pain, yet she felt none. And he was her brother, once upon a time and still now to the outside world, and nothing could change how they grew up with the same father loving them equally. But he felt nothing like Robb or Bran or Rickon. He was her King, though, she knew that could not be argued, and she had no desire to be a Queen; that dream was long dead. His thumbs on her cheeks, his fingers delicately brushing against her neck and under her ears and the look in his eyes, it was all making her want, to physically desire, but she knew that she was supposed to be a Lady, that those things were not what a Lady feels. Yet when she was a Lady, it hurt in the King’s Court when she acted as a Lady should. Then she became a wife in Winterfell and that brought her more pain. Would being neither a Lady nor a Wife lead to something other than pain?


	14. The Night The Pack Turned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's continuation of chapter 13. There is some mild violence in this chapter - between sisters. Stark tension reaches boiling point and Arya and Jon have a little sit down.

Desperately, Jon tried to find some words to say, even just one other than her name, but everything escaped him except for her eyes that were staring straight through him and the softness of her skin under his fingers. He had promised her honesty. He had also promised her safety and his thoughts and feelings would scare her, he was sure of that. The porcelain white of her skin was tinged with pink and he wanted to foolishly believe it was a flush from him. It always reminded him of fresh untouched snow and then he would always wish that the rest of her body could be as such, but he knew the truth her clothes hid. If only he could have rescued her from King’s Landing before Father’s beheading, before she had to witness such a horror and then suffer the beatings. Robb or the Lord Commander may have been forced to charge him with desertion, but she would have been safe. He doubted that he would have felt like that or even fully considered her then for the Sansa he knew before was not the Sansa he had seen in the snow at Castle Black.

He had returned from the dead with no ability to live and then he had seen her, a woman grown who, even under the furs and cloak, even with a clearly pained face, slightly drawn from her time travelling, there was still a beauty that no man could deny. He saw it more and more from her, especially when it was the two of them alone and even more so when she was freshly awake on a morning. It was becoming too difficult to keep trying to think it was a brotherly concern. His refrain _it’s what Robb would have done_ meant less and less each time he thought it. His thumbs wanted to stroke her lips, to part them and he ached to put his lips on hers. The feeling of her forehead and cheeks under his lips was not enough, not anymore.

But he was her brother, no her cousin though they shared a father, and he was her King and a bastard, too. She had no need for a second brother now that she had Bran back by her side, she had no need for another King by her side or a bastard in her bed. Her face heated under his hands and he saw the flush creep up from the top of her dress, yearning for more of her heat, the heat that he felt at night in the bed that they truly should no longer be sharing and that they barely even were. He knew they should not even be alone in her chambers now, let alone all night, sleeping so close and yet keeping such a distance that it pained him each night. He could not tell her what he was feeling. He could not be as all the others and simply take from her what he wanted. Surely she could not want him, too?

There was a shift and their noses suddenly bumped. Jon did not remember moving, but he felt unable to control himself or trust himself. His eyes met hers and then he forced his tightly shut, wondering if he had truly seen desire reflecting back from hers. He should move away, unsure that he physically even could. She had shifted in to him, hadn’t she? He should move away, unsure who had actually closed the distance.

“Jon?” Her voice was barely a whisper and he felt her word more than heard it.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw her breath catch and his voice came out as a whisper, so hoarse that even he barely recognized it. “I can’t…” her hands flew up to his, still cupping her face and he wondered if she could truly understand what he was trying to say. “I can’t make-”

There was a sudden knock on the door and all four of their hands dropped at the same time. He immediately sat back on his haunches and she stood as a voice called through the door. “There’s been a raven from the South, your Grace.” Sansa moved past him to attend to the door as Jon remained where he was, finally whispering what he wanted to say. _This is not what Robb would do._

“I can’t make you mine.”

\-----

The Dragon Queen was in Westeros, that was the news that the raven had brought, causing an emergency meeting between Jon, Sansa, Ser Davos, Tormund and Brienne. Bran had been informed the following morning when he and Meera had finally broken their fast, a week passed since then and despite the situation he had found himself in with Sansa, nothing had changed. It had not been mentioned. Clearly she did not hear his final whisper as she opened the door to the raven’s news. Not since the news that Queen Cersei sat upon the Iron Throne had news from the South thrown Winterfell in to such confusion. Not that Ser Davos believed the words the raven brought. It was a message from The Twins, passing on information Edmure’s bannermen had heard from further south. According to the news spreading across the Riverlands, Daenerys Targaryen had come to Westeros on a fleet alongside Theon Greyjoy’s, of all bastards, Jon thought, allied with the Dornish and Highgarden. Jon knew little of them, cared little for them. Tormund cared nothing for any of the news other than not believing the newest Queen had dragons, wanting to meet this Queen in battle purely to see the dragons. Sansa had been concerned, she still was in truth. She knew the Queen of Thorns from her time in King’s Landing and knew that she would, for the present time, be allied against Cersei. None of them knew what would happen after the Dragon and her allies fought Cersei. Because surely they would win that battle?

Would they come further north? Would they hold issue against the North for rebelling against the Iron Throne as Robb had? Would she hold grudges against the Starks for their Lord Father’s part in the death of her family? And of course, she had no knowledge of Jon. This Queen that was raging war on the South, that wanted the Iron Throne and, presumably the seven kingdoms, that was his Aunt. She was the only connection to the Targaryen half of himself, but, truly, did that even matter to him?

His new thoughts kept him awake at night, caused him to awaken more frequently through out the night and, in truth and shame, the only thing that helped him through those nights was Sansa lying by his side. Sometimes he would wake from his troubled thoughts to her still slumbering and she always had a look of calm peace upon her sleeping face. That gave him hope for some reason. She was always there when he could not sleep, always there when he awoke terrified and soaked with sweat and always willing to comfort him with words and gentle hands. However they fell asleep, neither moved away from the other before they awoke, at least not on purpose. All of the awkwardness from their previous discussion and moment on the moon of Bran’s nuptials had melted away like the quick summer snows. The only thing that seemed to bother Sansa was Arya.

It had been a few days after the wedding, after the Dragon news and Jon had been late to the training yard, caught watching over it from a window by Sansa.

_“Has she spoken with you?”_ Sansa had asked, moving to stand by his side with no other words of greeting or warning. Arya had taken to training with the men for as long as the men trained, sometimes longer it seemed. She barely took time to break her fast or share any meal. When she was not training or quickly sharing meals with the others, she could barely be found and could seemingly disappear for hours on end, perhaps even for a day or two sometimes.

_“Not much,”_ he confirmed and Sansa had nodded solemnly. _“She says nothing when we spar or patrol. She,” he had sighed then, “is not the Arya that we knew.”_

_“Are not we all different after our years and turmoil?”_

_“Aye,”_ he had nodded. _“But there’s something… it’s like there’s something missing from her.”_ It had been the first time he had admitted such a thing even to himself. The sisters themselves had not spoken about their time apart.

Watching as Sansa subtly kept glancing up at Arya, Jon knew that the younger Stark would feel her elder sister’s eyes upon her and he wondered if tonight, after weeks of having both of them home, things were about to be said. Ghost made a nuzzle at his hand and then padded out of Sansa’s solar, as if he, too, could sense the mood was about to shift. All three of them were sitting in Sansa’s solar, the first time that Arya had kept company with any of them since Bran’s wedding, and she had chosen to categorise and scutinise a small pile of weaponry that she had brought to Sansa. For her credit, Sansa had not baulked or returned to her childhood form at such an act from Arya, but she did keep watching her sister. There was perhaps some envy in her eyes.

“Quit eyeballing me,” Arya growled.

“I’m watching what you are doing, sweet sister, what is the harm in that?”

“I didn’t come home for you to sit judging me.”

“Why did you come home?” Jon winced as finally Sansa asked what everyone had been thinking but were too afraid to ask. Arya almost reminded Jon of a cat and he worried that a little spooking would send her running back to wherever she had been hiding all of these years. Because wherever she had been hiding, it had taught her skills he could not even fathom to think of. When she was sparring in the training yard, she could keep up with him and even Tormund. _Father had given her lessons in King’s Landing,_ he kept reminding himself after Sansa had informed him of Syrio Florel and his lessons.

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell. This is Winterfell, is it not?”

“And yet you barely spend any time in Winterfell. Where would you rather be?”

“Rather be?” Arya suddenly shouted, standing up with such force that her pile of weaponry clattered to the floor. Very carefully, Jon put down the ledgers he had been trying to concentrate on, focusing completely on the two sisters. “I would rather have been here my whole life and not sent to King’s Landing with the Stark who wanted a crown.”

With delicate precision, Sansa put down the needlework she had been doing and folded her hands on her lap, looking up at Arya. “And I would rather have learnt what it was to wear a crown far earlier, but that was not the question that I asked. Why did you really come home?”

“Why did you?”

“To take it back.”

“You already had it. Littlefinger sold you back to it from what I hear.”

“Aye, sold me, like cattle.”

“Oh, poor little, Sansa, all of the time. Alter the bloody song, sweet sister. I am the one who travelled with murderers and rapists, pretending to be a boy, risking my life. I was the one captured by the Hound, sold, alone just trying to get home! And you? You got what you always wanted – a King, the Royal Court, a Lordly Husband!” Jon watched as Sansa stood up, her cheeks flushed in anger and probably shame. Those had been the dreams of a child. “And now, you waltz back in to Winterfell, getting a new King to fight off your husband that you never wanted, setting yourself up to be a Queen. Again.” Arya began clapping in congratulations. “Aside from the actual Iron Throne, you got your heart’s desire, Queen in the North.”

Jon was already partially out of his chair when it all happened in the blink of an eye. There was a harsh clapping sound as Sansa’s hand made contact with Arya’s face and then Arya had a dagger held at her sister’s throat, a look of fear on Sansa’s flushed face. Without a stumble or moment’s pause, Jon grabbed Arya’s wrist and slammed it against the wall, the dagger clattered to the floor. “Never pull a dagger on your sister again!” he roared before pushing the only Stark he still saw as a sister out of the door to the solar and slammed the door shut before turning back to Sansa.

She was on the floor, huddled up in a ball and sobbing, repeating over and over: “I didn’t want that. I didn’t ask for that.”

Sansa finally fell asleep after Brienne and Podrick brought her some milk of the poppy and Jon encouraged her to drink it with the promise that he would be there when she awoke, but once she was asleep he left Brienne with her and went to find Arya. Despite her new found ability to seemingly vanish and spend hours if not a day or two hidden completely from sight, he found her by the old glass gardens with Ghost.

“How is the Lady?” Arya called bitterly as he approached.

“Is the Sansa you see now truly the Sansa you fought with daily as a child?”

“Clearly you see someone different.”

“You say you were on the road with murderers? Sansa watched them cut off Father’s head.”

“As did I,” she protested.

“She watched as a King was killed before her and the blame put upon her. Lannisters still want her head for it. She watched as your Aunt was murdered. She too was surrounded by killers.”

“In a bed, not on the King’s Road alone.”

“Aye, with lord upon lord forced upon her. You say you travelled with rapists, what do you think Ramsay Bolton did?”

“What a lord’s allowed?” she mumbled.

“Have you seen her scars? Heard of the beatings she endured? Two moons since and they still burn her.”

“Aye and what of my life since Yoren got me out of King’s Landing?”

“Yoren? That is my point, Arya. You have spoken not a word of what happened. How are we to understand?”

“Perhaps there is nothing to understand.” With a twist, she jumped from the wall on which she was sat and when Jon looked over the side, she was gone with no trace in the snow.

 

For two nights, Arya was gone and Sansa said not a single word about her. Bran remained quiet, too, leading Jon to wonder what he had seen in his trees. Did Bran know where Arya had been? Did he know why she was so different? Jon always hesitated to ask, just as he hesitated to ask more on the subject of the Dragon Queen and his own mother and father. Bran did not like discussing what he saw unless he deemed it, but Jon often wondered what the boy had seen. 

After walking the grounds one final time with Ghost, Jon headed back to Sansa’s chambers, hoping that she had stayed awake as he was later than usual, his thoughts keeping his feet moving slower than usual. When he entered her solar, he immediately felt that there was something different and he glanced through in to her sleeping chamber. Sansa was curled up asleep with Arya next to her and Jon could not help the smile that spread on his face. Making a move to leave, Jon considered going to his own chambers to at least rest if sleep would not come, but then he realized that he did not really have chambers any more. Not as they welcomed more and more local villagers to escape the winter snows. Settling himself in to a chair with some furs over him, the fire’s embers still glowing, Jon fell asleep.

“Arya,” he whispered when he awoke, stiff in his chair, to see those eyes that were so like his own and so like his true mother’s watching him.

She sat down on the low table, he shifted, his body still heavy with sleep. “I still don’t understand.”

“What?”

“You and her.” He questioned her with a raised eyebrow. “Sharing her bed every night.”

“It is not every night.” He knew the objection was a lie, but he had believed few knew and those that did never mentioned it.

“I hear the whispers, Jon. Yes, you do. And I see a lot.”

“Whispers? Who?”

“Most people notice that the King in the North never sleeps in his own room, that he shares with an unwed lady. I suggest if you ever have guests, you be more subtle.”

“We do not require subtlety.”

“Yes you do,” she laughed and it was the first time he had heard it since the first night she had returned and in the training yard. Was it the same laugh his mother had? “How did Sansa let this all happen?”

“She has nightmares.” _As do I._

“I’ll take over,” she offered and his face froze. “That,” she pointed at him, “that’s what I don’t understand. That look. That concern. You two never cared about each other before.”

“We did. Just, not as…”

“Brother and sister?”

“Aye.”

“And now she’s your cousin?” He nodded. “Do you love her?”

He took a breath as if to answer her and then huffed it out slowly, the words unable to form. Simply nodding she stood and kissed his forehead, returning to Sansa’s bed, leaving Jon confused and awake although he did eventually fall asleep. When he awoke next, it was to Sansa shaking him. That morning he learnt that his younger sister had left Winterfell and that the Dragon Queen was on her way. Three mornings later the dragons landed.


	15. Dragons, Krakens and a Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell receives some visitors.

“This Dragon Queen,” Meera posed one morning as they all broke their fast, “if she believes you are indeed her nephew, maybe she will think that a marriage is the best way to unite the South and the North.”

Politely dabbing a handkerchief at her mouth, Sansa’s back straightened. The Dragon Queen was due any day from what her raven had said. They had received no further news from the South, only knowing that the Targaryen was on her way, that she had landed somewhere in the South and was waging war on the Lannisters. Or at least at King’s Landing. Clearly, the dragons wanted the Iron Throne back and Sansa did not care much about that. As far as she was concerned, they could all just war amongst themselves until there was no one left, no one remaining to sit themselves on the Iron Throne, ruling over nothing. There had been no word from the Twins, Riverrun, the Eyrie or anywhere that might actually be in reach of the Targaryen-Lannister war. That was the only thing that truly worried Sansa, had Arya gone South and wandered in to fighting? Jon’s interest did seem to have been piqued by the dragon letter. He fought it in front of everyone else, showing indifference whenever it was brought up, but in their quiet moments alone, he had a wistful look whenever Daenerys was mentioned. It was the same look that he had whenever his true mother was mentioned, the look that pained Sansa each time that she saw it.

“I…” Jon stuttered and Sansa interrupted.

“If she accepts his claim, not that I am sure of telling her, she would give up her own and all power. If she agrees that Jon is the trueborn son of Rhaegar, that would trump her own claim as Rhaegar’s sister.”

“They like to inbreed though,” Meera commented through mouthfuls of food. “If Jon and she are the last two dragons…” She left the thought hanging.

“You expect Jon to agree to marry his Aunt?”

Meera shrugged and Jon spoke. “I am still unsure about whether to tell her the truth as Bran saw it. She may take me as a usurper. She may be coming here expecting the Boltons and take offence to Starks being seated here. Our parents were part of the rebellion.”

“Uniting with the South by marriage may not keep the favour of the North,” Bran mentioned, breaking his new found characteristic silence. So much had been seen by him when he travelled through the trees, so much that Sansa could not fathom to understand, but he sometimes seemed to know too much, mentioning once that he worried most of the time that something he said or did with his knowledge could cause a change. It was clear that something weighed heavily on him, Sansa believed it to be linked to Hodor – neither Bran nor Meera would discuss the friendly giant. “They raised a King in the North to fight the Night’s King, not a King to marry a dragon that resides in King’s Landing.”

“But afterwards?” Meera posed. “After the Long Night is done, then how do we have peace?”

“We wait and see who is even alive,” Jon said with an amount of irritation.

“I think you should tell her,” Meera continued and then abruptly stopped. “She’s more like to believe-”

“Meera?” Sansa asked in concern as Meera stood up and quickly excused herself from the room. “Bran, is everything okay with your Lady wife?”

“I’ll let you know when she tells me,” he responded cryptically with a smile on his face as Sansa began to clear away the plates. There were more and more people living within Winter town now and more people living within Winterfell now that the snows were piling higher and Sansa was well aware that whatever cooks, servants and maids that they had were overworked. It was a task just to make sure that everyone was fed and warm. Northmen were strong, but winter was going to be hard. As she piled the dishes in the kitchen, surprisingly empty considering the time of day, she felt a presence behind her, turning she came face to face with Jon. He clearly had something to say, but his face was impossibly still. She knew that face. 

They remained in silence, her eyes questioning him and wondering who would give in first. Things had been incredibly easy between the two of them since they had stopped questioning that they spent their nights together, ever since she had heard his whisper: _I can’t make you mine._ Personally, Sansa had even stopped thinking about everything else other than getting through day to day moments. She could see how hard Jon, Davos and Tormund were training the others. She knew what Bran, Meera, Jon and the Wildings told them was coming and she had no idea how to try and be relevant other than be a Lady and spend her days making sure that everyone was safe and that there were resources and space for everyone. Even if she did want to think about how, as a Lady, propriety dictated that she should not be sharing her bed with anyone other than a husband, that mattered nothing when Jon’s nightmares had grown more frequent. They now occurred more than once a night and he had started talking in his sleep, mumbling her own name in a panicked way before waking up with a shout. It worried her that she had become something he suffered with on a night and as far as she was concerned, his ability to sleep and train the men was more important than anyone besmirching her name for her actions.

“Would you marry her?” Sansa finally asked, both of them still looking straight at the other. She had given in first. “An Aunt by blood? A Queen? Without knowing her? For the North?”

“Would you?” he replied.

“No.” It was simple and quickly answered, but it was her truth.

“Even if it would mean war to say no?”

“No. Never. I’m warming to the idea of the Wilding way and being stolen.”

He smiled at her and she smiled in return. She appreciated his smiles so much more than she ever had before. “Then,” he said, “on what I know now, no.” He was leaving himself a window to change his answer at a later date. Probably after he met the beautiful and gracious Dragon Queen. There was another long silence and she moved past him, to continue clearing up her own mess. Her back was to him when he finally asked the question that had made him follow her. “Would you like me to claim my birthright?”

Sansa could not help the spontaneous, instant laugh that bubbled up and out of her, turning to see a confused look on his face. With a smile lingering, she placed a hand on his cheek. “Oh, Jon, you can barely hold court here amongst Northmen. Despite your Targaryen blood, King’s Landing would melt you.” Quite often he would excuse himself from the daily lists of small folk with problems to help with the training in the yard. He might be the King, but he was happier being a Commander-King rather than a Lord-King.

“So, you wouldn’t like me, to?”

“What do you mean?”

Shrugging his shoulders, he picked up a random piece of fruit and began passing it back and forth between his hands. “I wonder if I could be more. Maybe more to you, more than just Jon Snow.”

Taking the fruit from his hands, Sansa hooked an arm into his and rested her head on his shoulder. “I do not want a knight, a Lord or a prince. I’ve seen those, been married to them and you, Jon Snow, could be no more than you and no more than I want.” They broke apart when the kitchen staff bustled in, each resuming their usual day’s routine, retiring to her chambers together once the castle slept.

A day later, Sansa was checking on the glass gardens as a great darkness fell over her and she looked up into the snowy clouds through which the sun was trying to burst through. There was a gust of wind, stronger than any she was used to and before she could stand, Sansa could already hear the shouts of concerns, the screams of fear and more than one person declaring “Dragons!” Barely having the forethought to dust off her knees from the snow and dirt she had been kneeling in, Sansa made her way through into and passed the training yard towards the main gates. Jon was already there, a sweaty sheen covering his face and bare arms, Longclaw still out from their training.

“The dragons have landed,” a guard called down from the battlements, causing Jon and Sansa to exchange a look.

“How many?” Jon called up as Sansa pulled Podrick’s arm, stopping him.

“Fetch my brother. His Lady wife if she is up to it, too.” Neither Meera nor Bran had said anything yet, but Sansa had noticed Meera’s tendencies to disappear quickly after meals and was assuming the new Lady of Winterfell was pregnant. Pod nodded and ran off.

“Two dragons, your Grace,” another guard called down. “Appears to be three people with them.”

“Make that four. One’s a child.”

Jon looked at Sansa once more. “We should open the gates.”

“It should just be the four of us.”

“Aye, with guards ready in here. Up on the battlements.”

Sansa nodded and Jon moved away to give the orders when she caught his arm. “Perhaps sheath Longclaw. At least until they give you cause,” she smirked and he did not return the smile. There was a frown on his head and it worried her. Was this simply anxiety over meeting his Aunt? 

Within only a few moments, Jon, Bran and Meera were ready at her side as the gates were opened and they each took a few steps out of the gates, Meera pushing Bran. Sansa’s eyes first fell upon the dragons, further away than the Dragon Queen and her envoy, but still larger than she could have imagined and she had seen Wun Wun the last giant before he fell. Then her eyes were drawn to the Dragon Queen, so typically Targaryen in her features that Sansa held no surprise. She glanced at her cousin, at Jon, who looked nothing like the Aunt standing only a slight distance away.

“We appear to have missed some ravens,” the Queen stated. “We were under the impression that Boltons held Winterfell. Yet that appears to be the Direwolf banner.”

“Aye it is,” Jon answered. “Are you the Dragon Queen?”

“I am,” she nodded with a polite, regal smile. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of her name, Queen of Mereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khalessi of the Great Grass Sea and Mother of Dragons.”

“Long name,” Jon remarked. “I just call myself Jon Snow, King in the North.” Sansa watched as the Dragon Queen smirked once more and her travelling companions each bristled slightly. She took that moment to take in whom the dragons brought. The child her guards had seen was in fact Tyrion Lannister, to the right of the dragon Queen. On the left, Sansa recognized a much healthier looking Theon Greyjoy and a woman who wore the Kraken and was clearly either Theon’s wife or sister.

“Snow,” Daenerys queried. “Do we have any Starks here? As I believe the direwolf is their sigil.”

“Indeed you do,” Tyrion interrupted. “My lady wife.”

Sansa gave a slight curtsey as Jon’s hand gripped tighter on to the pommel of his sword, she afforded him a side glance and slightest shake of her head. “Lord Tyrion, it is good to see you once more. Our marriage was in front of the Seven, I regret to inform you that it does not stand in the eyes of the Old Gods. But wish that I were so I need not have endured a marriage to the Boltons.” She met Daenerys’s eyes. “I am Sansa Stark, your grace. This is Lord Bran of Winterfell and his lady wife, Meera, of House Reed. And, as he has already introduced himself, my kin, Jon Snow, King in the North.” She had tried to announce him as her brother but the word would simply not come out.

“Do you not remember what happened to the last King in the North?” Tyrion joked.

“Aye, he trusted a Greyjoy,” Bran replied and Theon, stared down at his feet in shame.

“And then lost his head,” the female Greyjoy called back. Jon flinched and squeezed his pommel again. Sansa smiled at him and then at the others, trying to keep everyone calm.

“Whatever happened to the vows you took, Snow, became the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, did you not? Are you an Oathbreaker as well as a rebel bastard?” Tyrion continued.

“My watch ended,” Jon grumbled.

“How odd,” Daenerys commented, “when I am Queen of Westeros. Is the North no longer in Westeros?”

“Your grace, the last raven we received declared that Queen Cersei of House Lannister sat the Iron Throne. Has that changed?” Sansa asked delicately.

“Do you recognize her as your queen?”

“I recognize Jon as my King,” Sansa replied. “Your grace, we have much to discuss. Winter is hitting us hard this far North, with troubles that you are not yet aware of, but we can provide you with a small meal for your travels.”

Daenerys and her companions made a step forwards, as did Jon, slightly unsheathing his sword. “Not them,” he all but growled at the two Greyjoys.

“Then we are at a stalemate,” Daenerys replied.

With her head high and level, Sansa stepped out passed Jon, stopping only when he grabbed her gently by the elbow. She met his eyes and whispered. “Trust me. Please.” He visibly sighed and released her in defeat and she moved to stand in front of Theon, curtseying for him. “Theon. I am pleased to see you well. I will forever owe you my life for helping me escape and getting me as close to my kin as you could.”

“You are safe and well, that was my aim. And Bran…” She smiled at him. “I understand,” he agreed, nodding at Daenerys.

“Well, I fucking don’t!” the female Greyjoy said.

“My sister,” Theon introduced.

“Pathetic ladies in their pretty dresses.”

Sansa drew up to stand in front of who she presumed was Asha Greyjoy, the only sister she knew Theon to have. “I wear my pretty dresses to cover the scars inflicted upon me as your brother watched without word as the Boltons beat me, and the marks that Lord Tyrion’s kin inflicted on me when I was a ward of the crown.” She turned from Tyrion to Daenerys. “And your father burnt my uncle and grandfather alive for wanting my aunt to be returned. I can move past such events. The realm requires us to, in fact. But it is harder for my King. It is even harder for my brother who watched a man he had known his whole life sack Winterfell and kill it’s people. My brother was but a boy when Theon acted.” She took a step backwards. “The North Remembers, your grace, and no Greyjoy may pass these walls. The rest are welcome.” Taking one last glance at Theon, she nodded at him and he nodded in reply. She then turned away and began walking back to Jon, their eyes met and she saw a smile in his eyes, suddenly feeling as if she needed to collapse in to his arms, but she could not. Not yet.

They all walked in to Winterfell’s Great hall and talked: Bran, Sansa, Jon, Daenerys and Tyrion. Meera left quite quickly to retire to her chambers. They discussed the Iron Throne, the other allies Daenerys had, the Riverlands and the Eyrie, and of course the North itself. They discussed the Night’s Watch and the Wildlings, the Wall and what lay beyond it, what was coming for all of them. Tyrion had laughed into his wine, sobering quickly when they called for Tormund, Ser Davos, other men who had been passed the Wall and seen the nightmares for themselves. Daenerys wanted help in the lands south of theirs, the Starks wanted men to guard the Wall. Stannis had believed them, Jon had told them. 

Aye, and Stannis was a Usurper fool who lost at the Blackwater, Tyrion had reminded them as Davos scowled in reply.

Bran had spoken on behalf of his Uncle, now residing in the Twins and holding Riverrun, too, stating that they would not take up arms against the Dragons, but that they were free to choose their ruler. He would not pledge their allegiance to a Queen on the Iron Throne no matter which house they were born in to. Sansa had spoken for the Vale stating similar, except that their loyalty to the North was not as strong, though the Vale had vouched men for the Wall.

“Littlefinger, the Little Weasel, is in the Vale. Well, I bet your crazy Aunt is pleased with that,” Tyrion had commented, sipping his wineskin. “Is that how you escaped, Lady Lannister?”

“She is not your wife!” Jon had argued.

Then Daenerys had asked the obvious question. “And if I wish to make the North kneel for me?”

“First you would need to be sitting on the Throne,” Sansa had responded much to everyone’s surprise. “Then we would need to have seen an end to the Night’s King and the longest Winter that is upon us. You’ve never seen a winter, have you, your grace? Let alone a Northern winter.”

Daenerys had bristled at that, but Tyrion had stepped in. “My Lord Father, rest his soul, used to say that no one could hold the North except Northmen.” Daenerys and Sansa had glared at him. “But then, what did my Lord Father know, he died on the shitter with a whore in his bed.”

“I would wager it truth,” Sansa had answered with what she had hoped was a stoic face. “With Jon’s approval of Wildings crossing through the Wall-”

“Forgive me,” Daenerys had interrupted. “But was not the Wall built to keep the Wildings out?” She had seemed unhappy with Jon’s actions, but Sansa was still not sure if the Dragon Queen was truly that easy to read.

“Of sorts,” Jon had agreed. “It was built to protect the realms of Men. The Wildlings might live differently to us, but they are still Men. They have helped fight back the Night’s King.” Tyrion had sniggered. He had resisted the truth of what was beyond the Wall far greater than Daenerys had. “They will fight along side me.”

“They fought for Winterfell?” Tyrion had asked, seemingly impressed when the others had nodded.

For two days they had discussed allying. Jon seemed to only care about having enough men and women to fight the armies of the dead and did not care about what happened afterwards, as long as his family were allowed to live in peace at Winterfell. After the first day, Sansa had warned him that it was foolish to simply hand over all of their power. He did not want power. No, Sansa agreed, but having some was the best way to keep them all safe. As far as he was concerned, however, once the threat from the North was gone, once there was peace or at least safety from the South, he would no longer be King. He would return to the Wall, or remain on in Winterfell as Bran’s bastard brother, perhaps Master at Arms.

“Would you take a wife? Raise your children here?” she had asked him in the whispering silence of her bed.

“If I found one. If I was blessed to have trueborn children. I would be no King. No Lord of Winterfell and my children would not be princes and princesses. They would never have a claim on your home.” He had paused as she sighed and then he had asked. “You have declared to never again want to marry, to be forced to marry, but what of a marriage of your own choosing?”

“I… do not know.” And her answer was still true three full moons later. Meera was almost half way through her pregnancy, announced just before Jon had left. The Targaryen Queen, her aides and her dragons had left after a second full day of discussions where they all reached the rather simple conclusion that they did not want to fight each other. The dragons needed to fight the Lannisters from the South, there was no opposition to the North as the Riverlands would be asked to remain neutral and were no friends to the Lannisters. Daenerys already had two of the seven Kingdoms, it was her fight to conquer the Stormlands and Rock. The Vale was not truly in support of King Jon and they all agreed to discuss the Riverlands when the dragons got far enough. Sansa had refused to swear the fealty of her Uncle and cousin to the dragon’s cause, especially when the North was not ready to. The dragon Queen had agreed, requesting that some aid be given if she needed it, in return for sending some of her own army North to start training. Men in exchange for Men, was how Tyrion had described it. They would send soldiers, asking for fewer untrained men in return to almost simply defend their land. Sansa was not sure what exactly would happen next, but the dragons had left peacefully and Jon was hopeful of more recruits to train to fight at the Wall.

Half a moon later, after a raven from the Wall, Jon had rode out, back to the brothers that he had left for Sansa, for Winterfell and for himself. The wights were advancing on the Wall, Edd was concerned that the few men that they had could not man enough of the damned thing to see where the wights were attacking. Damn winter snows, Jon had cursed, slamming his fist down on the table. Sansa had jumped in surprise and slight fear and Jon had immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, Sansa,” he had said. “For cursing, for hitting, for… I have to leave.”

She had smiled at him, simply saying, “I know,” and the thought of him leaving had not scared her. There had been no fear or apprehension. She was concerned for him, concern that did grow day by day, especially as he had not returned when he had originally promised; he was only late by half a moon. In truth she was lonely at night, resisting retiring to her chambers until she was yawning in an incredibly unladylike manner. Most nights, Brienne would force her to her chambers.

The final night before he was truly due home, Sansa had not slept at all, lying wide awake in her bed, pacing to the window and back just in case he was early, sitting by her fire and trying to sew new clothes, returning to her bed to lie wide awake and then repeating the process over and over until finally the smell of food had alerted her to the morning. After breaking her fast, Sansa had absently tried to help in the kitchen, more a hindrance than a help with her preoccupation. She was still in the kitchen, trying to knead some bread dough when she heard the horns, then the shouts. As she ran out into the yard, still covered in flour, her hair clearly disheveled and her sleeves rolled up, she heard the hooves of the horses speeding their way right in to Winterfell. The gates opened, the horses entered, slowing down and she saw him straight away. He barely looked any different to how he had left. It had only been a few turns of the moon, but Sansa had grown anxious that he would be different. She had heard women speaking of how different men were when they returned from war or long travels. Not that Jon was her husband and she hoped that he had not been at war. He had only sent two ravens during his time away. One to say he had reached Castle Black and another to say he was leaving by the next new moon and would be home soon after. He had spoken nothing of the Wall or the dead army beyond it. His face held a look of grave importance until he saw her and everything seemed to melt away on his face then he smiled at her.

Dismounting his horse in one fluid movement, Jon was standing in front of her within moments and he threw his arms around her, squeezing her so tight that she feared she might lose her breath or break another rib. He looked the same as after the Battle for Winterfell, smelt the same, too: of dirt and sweat, some blood and musk, and the scent that was purely Jon. Perhaps it was the wolf in her, the ability to smell so keenly. He started to pull away and she resisted it until she realized it was just so much that they could see each other. Resting his forehead against hers, he whispered above the cold, winter winds, “You promised to write me.”

“We have no ravens. Only the two you sent, we sent them back to Castle Black. I think… I think the winds are confusing them.” Nodding against her, she met his eyes. “I did write you though, the letters are in my chambers.” Gloved hands moved to cup her cheeks and Sansa wondered for a moment if he meant to kiss her. She would not fight him if he did, she realized and blushed though her cheeks were already pink with cold. “But we, we have a Maester now who can tend to the ravens. It should encourage them and mean we have a stronger means of communication.”

“What silly beggar Maester came up here to the bloody heart of winter?” he laughed.

“He said he was meant for the Night’s Watch, but he saw Meera was withchild and remained. His travelling companion is very good in the kitchen. All though, I find it odd for a Maester to be travelling with a young mother.”

“About as odd as he probably thinks it is with me, a bastard boy holding his lady sister in the yard.”

“We…” She meant to say that they should head inside. It made no matter that she knew they were no longer siblings, that their closest aides knew that he was not her bastard brother. It did not even matter that people within the castle, amongst their most trusted people, knew that they were closer than siblings would be, far closer than cousins could be, because no one ever said anything.

“You’re cold.”

“As are you.” Winter was upon them, the Long Night was coming and there were more important things than the Iron Throne, being a Lady and propriety. 

“I could do with a bath.”

Pulling away from him, she took his hand and led him away from the yard. “Podrick,” she called. “Help Jon with a bath in my chambers, whilst I prepare lunch. Shall I bring it up?” He nodded with a smile, she could see the exhaustion and knew he would be asleep soon after he ate. Watching him leave, Sansa wondered if maybe Daenerys saw things as truly as she now did. Except she did still want the Iron Throne and she would fight to the death for it. That was not an ally that Sansa wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to bring Daenerys and co up to Winterfell when Tyrion decided in my head that he needed to have words with Jon and Sansa. Sorry, not sorry!


	16. Jon Snow: Bastard of Eddard Stark

When Jon awoke the next morning, Sansa was sitting in her solar reading quietly, one hand running gently through Ghost’s fur. “Have you been waiting for me?” he asked as Ghost looked up and then settled back down, preferring his new female master or the rest after the long journey home.

“I did not want to be far when you awoke, no.”

“He has missed you,” Jon admitted and saw the smile as she continued reading.

“As I him. What of his master?”

“I sometimes feel that you are now his master,” Jon replied and she looked up at him. His breath caught for a moment. He had missed her from the moment he left, fought the urge to turn straight around. He had rode up to the gates of Castle Black and wondered if he could turn and flee, just to get back to her and away from the very source of his pain and nightmares. Edd needed to fill him in on the wights, it was more that could fit in a letter attached to a raven. And the Watch had heard directly from the Dragon Queen, asking for information, offering up help and supplies for them. Jon found it suspicious rather than grateful for the help. Simply seeing his cousin, being surrounded by her in Winterfell, it was enough to calm his mind. Briefly after eating the day before, Jon had found Sam, Winterfell’s new Maester. Well, Sam had found Jon in all truth, just as Jon had been walking half asleep and near stumbling towards Sansa’s chambers. They had embraced in the way that brothers did, although Sam had then noted that Jon was no longer his brother. “No, you’re a King now.”

“It does not change me.”

“You died, your grace.” Jon had rolled his eyes at the title, always did when it was Sam or Sansa or Bran. He did not want to be their king. “You’ve left the Watch and you’re a King. A King, Jon!”

“Aye, and why have you not returned to the Wall? Those were my orders.”

Sam had admitted that he had not finished forging his entire Maester’s chain, but he had studied long and hard for a few, until he had come across something hidden within the books and scrolls related to the Night’s Watch. “When, whenever I had a spare moment or two, I liked to read about the Watch, see if there was something written that could help us back on the Wall.”

“Find anything?” Jon had been interested, but he had also been desperate for sleep.

“This.” Passing a scroll in to Jon’s hands, Jon had barely really registered what it was at the time. “A scroll bearing the Targaryen seal, hidden amongst books relating to the Watch. Only a Maester can gain access to the archives. I bet it was put there my Maester Aemon, or maybe some Targaryen Maester from years and years before. I kept it safe and then, then I brought it here. Didn’t feel right opening it myself.”

“Sam,” Jon had interrupted. “I must rest.” Sam had nodded, mumbled aye as Jon opened a door and then Sam had started stuttering.

“Those, those are Lady Sansa’s chambers. If you have need of some chambers, you are welcome to mine,” he had offered.

“I’m fine, Sam.” And he had closed the door in his friend and brother’s face, exhaustion had consumed him, Jon had been asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He considered the lady’s words, standing a few feet from her in just the trousers he had slept in. “I missed you.”

She glanced up again with a smile, putting the book down and said, “Freshly clean clothes are just there.”

“Thank you.” Next to the neatly folded clothes was the scroll that Sam had given him. Although few knew of his true heritage, Jon knew that he would go and tell Sam as soon as he was dressed. “I…” He picked up the scroll and turned back to Sansa, her attention was still fully on him. “I am going to tell Sam the truth.”

“As you wish.”

“That does not trouble you?”

“You trust him.” It was not a question. “Then we all trust him.”

“He found this scroll in the citadel.”

“It bears your true house’s sigil.”

“Aye, but it is a house I know nothing of.” Sitting down on the edge of the little table, Jon leant his elbows on his knees and his chin on his clasped hands.

“What troubles you, your grace?” She was teasing him to get him to smile, but he could only muster the thinnest of upturned lips.

“I know nothing of one half of my family.” Laughing ruefully, he continued, “Other than one grandfather consumed the other with fire. I know that one grandfather was mad, mad enough to be overthrown and have a whole kingdom not want him sitting on the Iron Throne. They say madness runs in his blood. Does it run in mine? I have a throne now, too.”

“Jon,” she tried to steady him, but he continued, standing up and beginning to pace as if that gave him some purpose.

“Or my father, who kidnapped and raped, or fell in love with someone already betrothed to another. Who does that? Who, even if truly in love, betrays their own wife and mother of his children, upsetting at least two great Lords in the process? Surely that means he had madness in his blood, too?”

“Or simple stubbornness.” He turned to see her standing up, her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised as she stared him down. “You, Jon Snow, left the Night’s Watch, declaring your Watch was ended, you risked the ire of every sworn brother. You declared war on the bastard who held this very castle, angering him and at least two of our bannermen. That was before you knew of your dragon blood, when you were simply acting as a wolf, protecting your family.” There was a long pause for some sort of dramatic effect. “Maybe you did do that because of your dragon blood. Or maybe it was the Stark blood that runs as equal through your veins as it does mine.”

In a flash, she had taken the two steps to him and cupped his face, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “You are not mad, you are a wolf. Ghost should be enough evidence of that.”

“Aye,” he agreed, relenting and lowering his forehead the slight distance to hers. Even now, after all of these months, he could easily forget all of the growing she had done since she was his little sister. “At Castle Black I was reminded of what I learnt of myself, how I was a bastard, but knew how to be a lord. Or maybe pretend at being one, more so than the rapers and murders I was training. Even with Ghost by my side, I still…” Pulling away from her, he moved to the window to look out on the home he had always known, the home of the Starks. “I always thought my mother to be of the small folk, yet I was still curious about what I had received from her. Now, now I could have the chance to actually know.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Daenerys has sent ravens to the Wall separately from ourselves. She wishes to learn more about them and to give them aid.”

“Let her.”

“If…” Their eyes met. “If I went to her, to give her my aid, I might learn more of my family.”

“We are your family, Jon Snow.”

“No, Sansa,” he shouted. “You are my cousin. I was raised by my Uncle. Would you truly deny me the chance to know my Aunt?”

“And what do you propose telling her? Are you going to walk in to her camp and tell her who you are? How you found out? Would you put us all at such a risk? She could kill you on sight.”

“Merely tell her I am offering my aid.”

“Well, then you will appear to be a wolf in heat, sniffing at her hem for a new Queen.” Her blue eyes flashed with an anger that Jon remembered from his youth. “And what protection, even with lies and subterfuge, will you leave Winterfell with?”

“You will have Tormund, Ser Davos and the Wildling army.”

“That has been decimated by the Boltons.”

“Brienne remains.”

“And they are all busy training the North’s smallfolk to fight a war from beyond the Wall that you brought to us. They are only men, sworn in an allegiance to you and the war you have threatened exists.”

“It exists,” he growled in anger.

“You misheard my misgivings. They are men, sworn to you, and in the heat of battle, when they shit their breeches and turn tail-”

“Tormund? Really?” His laughter was genuine, but not at her. “Sansa,” he calmed. “You need to trust me.”

“You do not need to know about them, you already know who you are. You do not need dragons, Jon. Please, do not go south. We are Starks. We are Winter. Please, do not leave me.”

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Do not ask that of me. I need to see what she is like.” After a pause where all he wanted was to envelope her in his arms, though he resisted, he moved to the door. “The wights are encroaching on the Wall. The Watch could not man the Wall before Winter came. They need men. Therefore we need men. She is our best chance at an alliance. The Vale is… And the South is embroiled in a war with the dragons and lions.” Walking out, he closed the door behind him, pausing for a moment and feeling as if he were drowning in disappointment. 

They needed men, he would not break his oath of protecting the realms of men from that beyond the Wall. He needed answers. Opening the scroll, reading the old script, it only cemented his decision and gave him the need for more answers. That was how he found himself sitting in the Dragon Queen’s war tent two full moons later, declaring that he had not come to her as the King in the North.

“Then who?” Daenerys asked.

“I am Jon Snow, bastard of Eddard Stark. Nothing more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter (sorry!), but I've got the next pretty much ready. So, Jon has gone to Daenerys for men and help, leaving Sansa in the North. For now.
> 
> Again, thank you to every kudos and review, I will get around to them - I swear, I just have my brain fighting over Jonsa and Bethyl and Walking Dead is kinda winning!


	17. The Night a Stark Was Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's angry and disappointed with Jon for heading South, but when he returns will she remain angry? Oh, and Meera's about to have her baby!

Almost five full moons had passed since Jon had left Winterfell, the North. Me, Sansa thought as she looked at him standing before her. There had been no word of his approach, the blizzard outside was probably the reason. They had not left on the best of terms and she kept a guard upon her face, masking her warring emotions. He had left her in anger where she had been disappointed, saddened and anxious about what would happen. There had been anger within her, too, and there still was. She had shown him weakness when she had begged him to stay, unable to prevent the tears that had been in her eyes. It was childish and womanly and weak, so very weak. The next morning he had rode out, hoping to find a boat that could sail him South, and she had watched, hidden from view from the library. She had watched him glance up at her chamber window, their chamber for a time, and a firm scowl set on his face when she was not there and when she did not go to him to say goodbye. Her eyes had watched him until he had faded away and she had decided there and then that never again would anyone see her mask drop.

“Your grace,” she welcomed with a polite, tight smile. “We had no word of your return. Or of your guest.” Her eyes fell to Tyrion for a moment and then back to Jon’s almost. In truth, she was looking at the damp and frosted curls on his forehead, but everyone else would see her meeting his eye. Jon knew of course, she could see the clench of his jaw every time he shifted slightly to meet her eyes.

“We had no ravens,” Tyrion answered, seating himself next to Sansa.

“You must be cold, hungry,” she presumed and both men nodded. Glancing at Pod, she nodded at him to bring some more out. Jon pulled up a chair and placed himself directly in front of her. Refusing to react, Sansa passed her bowl of porridge and ale across to him.

“Daenerys is sailing North with men and supplies,” Jon spoke between mouthfuls of porridge and colour slowly started to return to his cheeks. “We came ahead, easier and quicker as just the two. She wants to help rebuild Winterfell, to make it safe and warmer for winter. The men, they are to be trained and sent on to the Wall. How fares the Wall?”

“We have had no word in half a moon. With the colder weather and lack of sun, the Wall is no longer weeping through the day. Edd last wrote that it made it easier to climb. There has yet to be sight of them South of the Wall.”

“Maybe a trip there with the Queen,” Tyrion suggested. “Before you return south.”

“You are returning south?” Sansa asked and immediately regretted the speed with which she spoke as she saw Jon smile ever so slightly. She must not show weakness.

“I will leave with Queen Daenerys once she has seen enough of the North to pledge herself fully.” His eyes searched her face, but she gave no further reaction. “The Lannisters still have a large force and the Queen is still adamant that the Iron Throne is more important than the Wall.” There was a brief pause and Jon looked down in to his porridge. “Tyrion will remain as her commander.”

“Won’t that be a marvelous thing, my dearest wife?”

“She’s not your wife!”

“I am not your wife.” They each glared at the Imp as they spoke in unison and then finally her eyes met his. They were still as familiar as they had been before he left her, before she hardened herself to the world once more. Jon’s mouth opened to speak, but she stood up and he remained silent. “Excuse me Lord Tyrion, your Grace, I have daily duties to attend.” Sansa spent her day as all of her days were spent, sleeves rolled up and helping in the kitchens, washing linen, mending clothes. If it were not for the blizzard she would have been helping with some of the structural repairs. The lone wolf dies, the pack survives, her father had always said and although only she and Bran were true wolves, everyone within Winterfell were her pack. They needed to survive winter together – Lords, Ladies, Kings, Queens and the smallfolk. She had managed to find a quiet moment to check in on Meera, who was close to laboring, even if it was partially to avoid talking to Jon over their midday meal. After her supper, where she feasted in the Hall with a growing population of Winterfell, Sansa returned to her chambers, hoping again to avoid Jon. Perhaps she could avoid him until he left her for the Dragon Queen again. Closing the door behind her, Sansa reached up behind her and pulled on the long end of the laces keeping her dress tied. It was more practical to dress herself although Gilly was perfectly happy to, the Wildling was always telling her she would be her handmaiden. It simply made things simpler on a morning and then whenever she considered it dark enough to sleep.

There was a rustling noise from her bed and she stepped warily, presuming that it was Ghost. No matter how much she wanted to keep Jon away from her heart, she could not deny Ghost. “Jon,” she breathed when she saw him sitting on her bed, sheets of paper in his hands. “Why are you here?”

“I have no chambers of mine own.” Because I always shared yours, she could see the words in his eyes but it mattered nothing. He had chosen to leave.

“You did until you flew off with a dragon.” She began to unpin her hair, it had been swept up purely for practical reasons when she had awoken. “Podrick’s bed is plenty big. Or wherever Tyrion has been squeezed perhaps.”

He put down the papers and shook his head with a glum laugh, looking at her in the reflection of her looking glass. “I’ve been further North than you can ever imagine, stood atop the largest Wall and seen the whole world stretched before me, yet here is the coldest I have known.”

“Perhaps it is the loss of your Stark blood that is warming you.”

“Or the Tully face I remember as a child, always putting me in my place, pushing me away.”

Standing up and turning to the man still sitting on her bed, the bed that she had started to think of as theirs, she refused to keep her anger within any longer. “Do not belittle my Tully heritage.”

“Yet you can my Targaryen?” He was stood now, too, a few steps away but even at the small distance, it felt as if he were directly in front of her.

“I have been Stark and Tully my whole life. You? You have been Targaryen for a few moons.”

“Aye, and all I want to do is learn more about them as you know about your Tully family.”

“To the point that you left your true family for her? That you come home and install a Lannister in your place as you are going to ride south once more. South, Jon! South. What good is there in the South? Down there you are but a bastard son of a traitor. Here,” she tapped herself on her chest. “Here, you are a King.”

“I don’t want to be King of the North.” The anger had melted from him and he looked almost defeated. She had done that to him, the realization hurt her.

“What do you want?”

Walking to the window, she felt an ache in her chest at now only being able to see the back of his head. “From the day a red witch returned me to life, I… I had no purpose. Then you rode in to Castle Black. I remember it so clearly. I never thought I would see any kin again and there you were.” There was a heavy sigh. “You were so delicate, still. A woman grown, but your face was so hard, so cold. I had died yet felt joy at seeing you. What had happened to you to make you so…”

“Dead inside?” she finished for him.

“Aye. And all I knew as we spoke was that I needed to keep you safe. I know that the North, the realms of men need fighting for, but then there was you.”

“Then fight for me!” she implored, reaching for his hands at the cold window.

“I told her who I am,” Jon admitted with a quiet voice, his eyes trying to meet hers, but Sansa refused. Snapping her hands away from his as if they burnt, she walked back over towards her bed, unable to fully pinpoint what she felt. “The scroll Sam found was a missive from Rhaegar to Maester Aemon, declaring that he had wed his Northern Wolf and she was withchild. We can only assume that Aemon hid it within the archives before he took the black, after the rebellion.”

“How much of a fool are you?” she demanded with a quiet, harsh voice. “Your claim is greater than hers as a trueborn son. She is just his sister. She could have killed you without hesitation. Or decide to marry you.” Very slowly Sansa turned around and found his eyes ready to meet hers. “Have you?”

“No,” he promised, his voice thick and strange to her ears. “I would never. I do not believe she would, truly.”

Vulnerability suddenly came over her and Sansa folded her arms across her chest, the loosened dress shifting slightly. Her eyes fell to the bed in an attempt to avoid him and she noticed the papers he had been reading. “What are these?” she demanded hotly, her cheeks burning.

“Letters. They were in the chest along with my clothes.”

“Letters not for you!”

“Have my name on them.” Her jaw clenched at his unknown betrayal. It felt worse than knowing he had run away to be with a queen. A long silence fell on the room and Sansa considered leaving if she were not almost in a state of undress and had anywhere else to go. “Even after you declare you hated me, you still wrote.”

“I was upset,” she responded, her arms still hugged around herself. “I afforded myself some childish fantasies and weakened myself in letters only, not for you to use.”

“Use?” He crossed to her and hunched down, trying to get her to meet his eye. “Sansa, I welcome your weakness. It is not right to always be strong. You have been strong for too long, too guarded and cautious.” He held her upper arms and jostled her slightly until her arms fell away, opening herself to him. “I want to be someone you can be free with.” He paused for a beat until she finally met his eyes. “What fantasies?”

“Fantasies that perhaps there was one in the world who saw me not as a House, not as a Stark or as Winterfell. One who saw me as Sansa. A woman.”

“I have spent my life so conflicted, Sansa.” His eyes dipped. “As the bastard of Eddard. As a Lord’s son on the Wall. As an infiltrator with the Wildlings, the Lord Commander of the Watch who saw potential in the Wildlings and let them through.” With a sigh, he met her eyes again and pulled her slightly closer. They had been closer before, had slept all night long wrapped together, but this felt more intimate. “When I brought you back here, I had hoped the conflict would pass. I was King in the North, I had your acceptance, but I still felt it. I went south because of my confliction, believing it to be the need to learn who I am, but I realized it was you that caused the confliction.”

She opened her mouth to speak, to object to his words. Sansa had never intended on being that to him, never at all. Any words that tried to be spoken were cut off by his mouth on hers, kissing her in a way that she had never experienced before. Her hands moved to his neck, tangling in his curls and she later wondered if it was her that pulled him to her, crushing their bodies together. It was him that pulled away first, his hands did not move, they did not let her move away and he rested his forehead against hers. She could feel and hear his erratic breathing, trying to speak again all words failed her.

It was him that spoke in such a voice she would not have heard him if it were not for their closeness. “I should leave.”

“Why?” she asked, her hands slipping down to the collar of his tunic, gripping tightly hold. A sudden fear gripped her that he would leave her again. He had read her letters and he knew what was in her heart, all of the gushing, girlie things she had written with no intention of him ever reading. In her neat script, she had declared that she loved him, that he was not her brother, she felt something far too great for him to be her brother.

“Because if I stay… I fear what I shall do.” She shook her head and kissed him again before looking at him, straight in to his dark eyes. “You are a lady and deserve to be treated as such.” His voice was low and husky, she knew then that she could make him spend the night with her.

“I have acted the lady since I first left Winterfell and it did me no good.” She kissed him deeply. “Of all my husbands and guardians, you have been the only one to love me.” His response was a growl and she smiled. “Love me, Jon.”

GOT – GOT – GOT 

Jon was not sure when last he had managed a perfect day. Perhaps he never had, yet so far, his day had been as perfect and happy as he could ever imagine. For a moment, when he had first awoke, naked in Sansa’s bed with an equally naked Sansa spooned up to his side, her head on his chest, a trickle of guilt had started to seep in to his conscious mind. The lady breathing evenly and deeply, contentedly on him was exactly that - a lady, unwed and he had surely defiled her by taking her to bed? That was not what her words had said though, that was not how either of them had felt, clearly. She felt perfect in his arms as if it was where she had truly meant to always be. She was a woman grown, Bran the closest family to pass her off for another marriage and winter was upon them as war soon would be and propriety meant little and less with each passing day, at least to Sansa and to him. No longer his sister, no longer a maid, his actions did not deserve the guilt that had been present within his conflicted mind for moons. No, because that guilt had been borne out of feeling something inappropriate for the beautiful woman he had known most his life as a sister. But she was no longer his sister and she felt the same. He was sure of it despite neither of them making wild declarations of love. Jon was tired of fighting; he loved Sansa.

She had awoken, smiling up at him and they had kissed, both of them making the move equally. Then there was a knock on the door and Sansa had tried to pull away where he held her to him fast. “Stay.” His voice had been a whisper where it was not intended to be.

“Your grace, it might be important.” It killed him whenever she called him by his title. The second time he had kissed her, she had relaxed, softening against his body. As his lips had moved to her neck, a spot he had quickly discovered she enjoyed she had spoken his name, which somehow now seemed to mean something so much more. “Jon,” she had interrupted. “It will not do to have them burst in and catch us so… compromised.” His eyes had sought hers out, fearing that she did regret the night, but there was a smile so genuine that he knew she did not.

“Fine, but I expect you back here post haste.”

“Do you order me as my King?” Sansa had been quickly dressing as she spoke. A simple woolen dress with no undergarments he had noted. He had never got the chance to answer as she had smiled mischievously and opened the door in a way that blocked him from view. He had heard Pod’s message, but Sansa had repeated it herself, a smile upon her face.

Meera’s labour had begun in the early hours of the morning, slow and steady, Gilly and Sam had waited until it was confirmed as true labour before calling Sansa to aid. There were few women in Winterfell anymore, fewer still that had experience in child birth. Sam, himself, was only attending as a Maester despite having no training in womanly matters. Gilly had been watching births her entire life, helping in her sisters’ births and had been the perfect person to step in. Sansa had paused briefly before following after Pod, to turn to Jon and kiss him quickly, promising to return later.

She had yet to return, but Jon did not mind, busying himself for most of the day with Tormund and Davos, sparring, discussing and planning defenses with them and Tyrion. Spotting her briefly soon after his midday meal, she had looked far too busy to notice him, rushing about across the yard, but had managed to smile at him from afar. He could have sworn he had felt a blush on his own cheeks. The next time he saw her was at supper, Jon was sitting at a lower table with men around him, enjoying being simply a person rather than the King at the high table. All of those years he had spent wishing to be amongst the true born Starks and now he relished the meals where he could sit with anyone and be called Jon rather than Grace. Although only Tormund still called him Jon, and Tyrion, but the Imp was seated alone for his supper.

“I am ravenous!” Sansa suddenly declared, plopping herself down on the bench next to Jon. He had not thought there room for another there, but she managed to fit, and seat herself in the least lady like manner ever. Not that she had maintained her manners during the night. Everyone was the same in a bed, he considered, no matter how high or lowborn they were.

“How goes Lady Stark?” Ser Davos asked, passing the bread rolls and Sansa took one with thanks and pulled a part off, replying with her mouth full.

“Still laboring, getting tired, but Gilly thinks it will not be long.”

“Food could have been sent to you,” Jon supplied, a hand on her shoulder. Her hair was a mess, all frizzy and wild whilst her dress appeared disheveled. She had not yet had the time to dress properly, not if she had not yet eaten.

“Lady Meera cannot abide any smells of food presently. She almost had me make the cooks cease cooking supper for everyone. The smells wafted up to her.”

“Aye,” Davos laughed. “My lovely wife was the same. Hated the smell of fish when laboring, but loved it whilst withchild. A little too much perhaps.” Tormund laughed a huge belly laugh at that, slapping the sailor on his back.

Jon made an attempt to pass her what was left of his stew, but she shook her head. “I cannot risk Meera smelling it on my breath. Bread and water will have to do. Though I have not eaten since last night and it had been a busy day indeed.” She put more bread in to her mouth and subtly slipped her free hand across from her own lap to Jon’s. No one appeared to notice, everyone back in their own conversations now. 

“That will keep your energy up,” Jon grumbled, unable to trust his voice.

Swiveling to straddle the seat and face Jon, Sansa downed a cup of water and wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her simple woolen dress. Leaning in closer, she whispered almost in to his ear before standing and leaving: “Perhaps I shall even find the time to dress properly.”

He almost choked on the breath he took and immediately stood to leave the Hall. By the time he reached the door, she was already gone and he sighed, leaning against the wall. Her duties to Meera were more important. Then there was a dry, voice he had heard from far too often from his time in the South. “Ah, your sweet sister.”

Jon turned to see the Imp approaching him. Before the realm had devolved in to chaos, Tyrion and Jon had spent time together at the Wall and Jon had seen something not quite so terrible in the Lannister and there were still times, in the South that Jon quite liked the Imp’s conversation. Just as before, when neither had known, Jon and the Imp were on opposing sides of the Iron Throne. Not that Jon wanted anything to do with the monstrosity of King’s Landing, but the Imp was Daenerys’ man and would stab him in the back in a heartbeat if it suited him or the dragons. “Tyrion.”

“I would so like to see what dear sweet Sansa has learnt in her time since we were wedded.” Anger flashed through Jon, his world narrowing to only see the Imp as he grabbed the half man about the shoulder and shoved him back against the wall, holding him there. “Apologies, your grace.” The Imp did not consider him a King, even though he knew of Jon’s true heritage. “I should respect your relationship with your sister greater.”

“Cousin,” Jon growled vaguely aware that he never corrected anyone of his relationship with Sansa. Most were unaware that she was his cousin in truth and not a sister. Maybe it was the Imp, his words of Jon’s own acts with his cousin the night before, but he could not have her be called his sister. 

“So it is your cousin with whom you share your nights?”

Having never mastered the art of deception, not truly and not well enough for the Imp, Jon answered as truthfully he could given the recent developments. “She is a lady unwed. My kin.”

“In truth,” Tyrion responded, pushing Jon’s hand away. “She is twice wed, and I would assume bedded by now.” Jon’s anger flared again, Tyrion noticed. “Oh, not I. Our marriage ended with her maidenhead intact.” There was a long pause before Tyrion took a step away from the wall and then continued. “It is a dangerous game you are playing.”

“I play no game.”

“Yet your emotions and actions betray you. I see how Sansa looks upon you and you on her, but I know you both quite well. After all I have lived in close quarters with you both. Her skill at deception has increased since our wedded bliss. Others may not yet have noticed. Is she the reason you are reluctant to wed?”

It was what Daenerys frequently mentioned, marriage alliances and it gave Jon a headache. There was a war coming from the North and all Jon wanted was an army to fight it, to ensure his home and family survived in to the spring. He would not marry some Dornish Princess or other Lady who knew nothing of winter, just to save the realm, just to have the dragons. Then Daenerys had mentioned Sansa’s claim and her potential suitors. “I have given my reasons.”

“Indeed, the stubbornness of the Starks. But it is your feelings for your cousin that made you tell Daenerys you would accept no marriage request for Sansa, is it not? Feelings that, I believe, are clearly reciprocated.”

Jon had told her that, no, he would not agree to Sansa being married off. When the fight for spring had been won, then he would talk to her. “It is to be her decision and hers alone. After her last two husbands I would be remiss as her kin to force her to marry anyone. Winterfell is our home and where we are both safe.” The same argument had been given to Daenerys and she had simply asked him what he expected to happen once Bran’s heir was born. Winterfell could not have a King, a Lord and the Lord’s heir.

“So you would accept her husband within these walls? Her husband in her, sorry, your shared chamber bed, whilst you sleep cold and alone much like on the Wall. Or perhaps you and your bride could share the chamber beside hers.” Stepping passed him, Jon did not move as Tyrion paused and turned briefly back to him. “I have watched the realm dissolve in to a war torn land all because of love choosing betwixt it and a crown. You would be remiss to not learn from your family’s mistakes, or mine own.”

Unsure of where to go or what to do, Jon decided to wander the battlements, the perimeter, anything to avoid people or returning to the only bed he really knew anymore in Winterfell. The guilt that had melted away when she was in his arms had crept back in. It mattered not that they were cousins, the guilt was not for that. Their actions could have fathered a bastard, something he had vowed to himself he would never risk. Their actions had brought shame on her, to bed an unwed lady. Even in times of war, it was not acceptable. _What would Robb do?_ Robb broke an oath to the Freys, doomed his army and his own life for the shame it could have brought the woman he raised to Queen of the North. There was no questioning what Robb would have done after a night of passion with not even a betrothal in place.

His mind was still clouded when he found himself back in the Great Hall many hours after the moon had risen, barely a soul was even awake let alone to be in the Hall and Jon was unsure what had made his feet take him there. After a few moments, simply looking around at the Hall that had been where he had spent many a feast, been pronounced King in the North and had finally felt accepted by every member of his family, Jon heard a song that he remembered from long ago. Looking to the doorway, he saw Sansa walking in, a bundle in her arms, her hair greatly disheveled and she was singing a song she had sung to him and her brothers once. He had only vague memories of Arya as a babe, but he could remember how she screamed and cried, and how Sansa had sung to her. It was the same song now. The breath caught in his throat at the sight of her and he felt like he had perhaps never seen her before. All of their youth, everyone had spoken of Sansa’s beauty, Jon himself had seen it, but she had grown more and more beautiful with age, and so very regal.

“Jon,” she breathed in the middle of her singing, a smile on her face as she looked at him. “Meet my new nephew, Jojon Stark.” He gazed down, across her arms at the smallest babe he had ever seen. “For Meera’s late brother Jojen and Bran’s cousin, King Jon, the first of his name.”

The boy’s eyes were opened wide, a small splattering of dark hair on his head peeked out from the blankets that were keeping him warm. Jojon seemed to look up at Jon and then screwed his face up and started screaming. “He does not like me.”

Sansa shook her head, jiggling herself and the babe up and down without breaking the proximity; she was almost pressed up against him to grant him the view of Jojon and Jon could feel her warmth. He wanted to take her to bed again. “He likes no one but his mother. Meera needs at least an hour of rest. She labored over a day and needs some sleep, but this one…” She smiled at the babe as his screams quieted down to simply complaining grumbles. “Wants only his mother and her bosom.”

“Do we have anyone able to wetnurse?”

“None. Not that Meera would accept it. Mother never did either, both insistent that theirs would be the only breast their children knew.” Shaking her head, Sansa suddenly apologized. “Jon, I am sorry.”

“No need.” His hand moved to her elbow, the other to the babe’s head. “My mother did everything she could for me and I must be grateful for that.”

Sansa’s adoring gaze had returned to the babe in her arms, “I do not know how Mother did it. I have barely slept since Meera began her labour and I feel as if I am dead on my feet.” Fighting an incredibly unladylike yawn, Sansa shook her head. “I will be in my chambers within the hour, perhaps two. Will,” she whispered despite no one being present. “Will you be there?”

He had meant to say no, to have some incredible excuse as to what he was doing that she would know straight away to be a lie, but that was at least plausible, but all of his thoughts and plans escaped him as he stood there essentially cradling a babe with the woman he feared he loved. What would Robb do? He thought to himself yet again. I will father no bastards. Instead an admission spilt from his lips. “I spoke with the Imp earlier.” Silence was her response, however she did eventually look up to meet his eyes. “He had suspicions about us.”

“Had?”

“I may have confirmed them.”

“Jon,” her voice was neutral and calm but he suspected that was purely because of the babe in her arms. “Tyrion would not have known anything. If he now does, it does not bode well with his Queen’s arrival in less than a day.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“Daenerys keeps speaking of potential suitors for me and for you.” Her eyebrows rose at this, her attention fully on Jon. “I keep putting her off. Winter is not the right time, there are more important matters at hand, but she does not agree and would seek to at least have betrothals in place. Whether they are consummated or not.”

“She considers suitors for you as Jon Targaryen?” Her eyes were still fixed on him and he nodded. “Despite how you have not been legitimized and you rule the North as a Snow of Stark blood?” Nodding again, Jon started to speak, but Sansa spoke over him, stepping away from him as he did so. “Then you are likely to return with a wife, and an heir some day.” She had stopped jiggling Jojon. “I must return to Meera.” She turned and then paused, throwing her leaving comment over her shoulder so he could not see her face, only hear her cold words. “Have no fear, your grace, I will seek out Maester Sam and have some moon tea prepared. I would not wish to insult your Aunt by disgracing her further.” With those words she was gone and Jon did not see her even in passing until the eve of the next day once Daenerys had arrived and they were all seated in what had been Eddard’s solar and Sansa refused to meet his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the sexual tension got resolved, but neither of these guys are good at talking, or at least they both fear the rules their society has. Personally, I kinda love the fact that Jon and Robb have something more in common now, because, yeah, Jon thinks he needs to marry Sansa now. Except Sansa's pissed with him and wants some Moon Tea...!


	18. The Wolf Fights Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is still pissed, and Dany has come to talk to the North, much to Sansa's displeasure. Can she even trust her cousin-lover since he's been South for a few months?

Sansa was seated in between her last remaining brother and the Hand of the King, Ser Davos, opposite her once husband, the Dragon Queen and a man oddly named Grey Worm, King Jon was at the head of the table, which Sansa already found odd. How much faith did the Dragon Queen have in her nephew, to allow him at the head of the table, to lead their meeting? For over two moons, Jon had been by the Queen’s side, fighting a Southron war for a throne that he had no need for, a throne that Sansa herself despised the very notion of. The Baratheon bastards that had sat the throne after King Robert had passed were not who Sansa, or the North, had ever wanted on the damn ugly throne, but her own father, grandfathers, mother and many more had not wanted the Targaryens there either. If she could, Sansa would cut Westeros across the middle and separate herself from the South. She was unsure where that cut would be, however, with the Riverlands bending the knee to King Jon and the Vale still under Petyr’s influence, who knew where Jon’s kingdom ended anymore.

The other thing she was greatly confused by was the matter of Jon even being their King. It had only been two moons that the last two Targaryens had been united, but how much had changed in those two moons? Sansa could only wonder, because a part of Sansa worried that a lot had. In truth, she and Jon had only been reunited for a few moons and how much had changed there? For years, he had been her half brother, a bastard that she kept at a distance and then he had been all that she had left. Her safety from Petyr and the only true reason she had been able to reclaim her home and peace from the Boltons. Then he had become far more than that to her and, if their night together meant as much to him, she had become more to him. They were no longer half siblings, they were not even the cousins some believed them to be, but if he could change that much for her, then surely it was as easy for him to change that much in the presence of his Aunt, the Queen that could give him the answers he needed about his father and, of course, the realm.

What if his allegiances had shifted? Sansa had been naïve to the politics of playing the game for the Iron Throne when father had taken her to King’s Landing, Jon was a warrior, a commander and a fighter, not a player and perhaps he had been swayed by the Dragon Queen, her men from across the sea, or the Lannister Imp. Had he met the Queen of Thorns and had her use him in her game yet? True, he had come to her bed, been the first person to show her what love meant in the privacy of a chamber rather than the bastard form that the Bolton Bastard had shown her, a gentleness that she had never even dreamed possible let alone deserved of by her. Where previously all matters of the chamber had revolved around pain, rough hands, tough movements, sharp tools and vulgar words, one night with Jon had been nothing like any of those. At first, she had been afraid to meet Jon’s eyes, wishing that the candles and lamps had all been blown out and surrender to the darkness with him, but he had passed, hovering above her and asked her with a gentleness she was still unused to, “Sansa, I would have you look at me, please.” So she had, the glee and madness that was always present in the bastard’s was nowhere to be seen in Jon. His eyes had simply shown her love. His kisses had been gentle, his hands even more so and his movements concentrated and caring. There had been nothing painful, nothing degrading or insulting in anything Jon, or she, had done. For a short while he had regularly asked her if she was okay, if what he was doing was okay and if she felt pain from what he was doing and each time she had nodded at him until the questions felt frustrating and so she answered him with a kiss instead, rewarded then with a smile from him.

When he had stood with her, Jojon in her arms as he stood so close to watch the newborn babe, she had not been able to fight the image in her mind of them standing like so with their own babe between them. But then he had mentioned the Imp, the Dragon Queen and alliances through marriage and her heart had sunk, back to thoughts of his own allegiances after spending time in the South. Whilst Sansa had been reminded of her Northmen blood whilst in the South, perhaps for Jon, it had helped him realize his Southron ways. For the first time, Sansa feared and regretted raising Jon up to be King for his allegiances could be swung away from her and the North. Was he more Targaryen than she had believed?

And now, sitting in what had been her father’s solar, Sansa was listening to everyone else discussing the situation in the South, how close to what was left of King’s Landing the Dragon and her forces were, what aid she was sending up to the North and then on to how to repay people for their kindness. Those had been the Dragon’s words, a veiled attempt at bringing up suitors and betrothals. This was where she was going to make demands of the North, demands that Bran and Sansa were not willing to make. With the Tyrells and Sandsnakes fighting alongside the Dragons, they would be who needed rewarding. Sansa knew how to play this game, but there were no sons in either household to marry to the North. There were the Greyjoys, although Sansa had been led to believe that they had joined forces with Dragons to force their uncle off of the Iron Islands and rule themselves under Queen Asha. There was no way that there could be the suggestion of marrying Theon to anyone, he was as accursed as every remaining Frey. In truth, you did not just marry houses together to thank a loyal bannerman, in times of war, you had to keep valuable marriage prospects to keep other bannermen under control. If Margaery had survived the wildfires in King’s Landing, she could have made a good match for the Dragon Queen to propose to Jon. Margaery would have hated the North, much more so than Sansa had as a youth and she would not have come to love it as Catelyn had, but she was adept at playing the game. The Dragon Queen would have been rewarding the Tyrells for coming to her cause and keeping an important player away from the heart of the game but still in a key position of power if she truly did want to announce Jon as a Targaryen.

“Primarily, I propose a betrothal between the Iron Islands and the North,” the Dragon Queen said to a silent room. “Without their ships, I could not have made it to Westeros as soon as I have, the supplies that come to Winterfell now, are due to their ships, the soldiers to help man the Wall, their ships, and I believe that they have a great deal of discord and pain that needs healing with the North.”

“Who do you propose?” Jon’s voice was angry and Sansa finally glanced over at him due to his reaction. The Dragon had not mentioned this yet to him, perhaps his allegiances had not shifted. “Because Theon has no cock.” His face gave no apology for his language. “I would not see a daughter of the North be sold to him and end a line.” 

“The North will not stand for any marriage to the Greyjoys.” Bran said simply and without any malice.

“For the Queen of the Iron Islands?” The Dragon Queen asked.

“Perhaps a union with the King in the North?” The Imp continued and everyone turned to look at him, Jon with anger, the Queen with amusement and Bran in confusion. Sansa looked upon him with a face as blank as she could manage. If the Dragon Queen agreed to that, marrying Jon to Asha, it would mean consigning one of them to a life away from their kingdom. Did she mean to legitimize Jon as Prince and send him to the Iron Islands and away from court? He already had the backing of the North, perhaps the Dragon Queen was afraid that he could steal her throne away from her.

“And, Sansa,” the Dragon Queen turned directly to her. “Your marriage to Tyrion can easily be reinstated, making you the Lady of Casterly Rock. Once we have dealt with the other Lannister problems of course.”

It was Davos’ turn to speak up. “Your grace,” he spoke so politely to the dragon. “It may all be conjecture, but Lord Tyrion has been accused of Kinslaying. Would you make a Kinslayer inherit lands when Westerosi standards refuse such a thing?”

“Tywin Lannister’s brothers and sisters have all perished, as have all of their children aside from a few Freys. The accursed Freys or Lord Tyrion?”

“There is also the matter of the Wildlings,” Bran said. “They must be included in our lands although their marriage practices are wildly different to ours.”

“They can be included, of course,” the Dragon Queen answered. “I believe it more prudent to seal the alliances between the North, South, Dorne and the Iron Islands. And of course, the Vale. If the Vale could be married in to the rest of the Kingdom, it-”

Sansa stood, scraping her chair heavily along the floor as she did so and all eyes turned to her. Grey Worm even appeared to be about to stand as if he felt a threat from Sansa, or perhaps simply a great insult to interrupt his Queen. “You wish to legitimize Jon Snow as your Targaryen nephew but deny him the Iron Throne? You wish to waltz in to the realm that you believe you are entitled to rule yet are second in line to inherit, a realm that you no very little about and make decisions for all of us?”

“Sansa,” Jon warned as Tyrion did so by saying, “Lady Sansa.”

“The North has a King. We do not need a Queen. We do not need the Iron Throne. The King in the North kneels for no one and we will keep our independence.”

“Have you spoken with your King about such matters?” the Dragon Queen asked. If it meant to unnerve Sansa, she refused to let it show. Sansa was already aware that the two dragons at the table may have more of each other’s confidence than she did with her fellow wolf.

“My King was raised to his position by the Northern Lords uniting for the Starks under Lord Eddard Stark’s son, baseborn, but son none the less. Would they remain united for a Targaryen Prince who is not Eddard Stark’s son? The North remembers, your grace, and it has no need for a dragon. It has a trueborn son of Eddard Stark, cousin by blood to the Vale and the Riverlands. All that King Jon has is a cousin in Winterfell and an Aunt trying to acquire the Iron Throne. Marry him to the Iron Islands or a Sandsnake and you will lose the North.”

“And what of yourself?” the Dragon Queen responded.

“Myself?”

“Who can we marry you to, to strengthen my bonds with the realm? Theon, Tyrion, a Wildling commander such as Tormund.”

From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Jon squirm in his chair, even Tyrion balked at some issue. Still unsure of Jon’s allegiances, Sansa had to hope on her brother’s, even after she had forced him to marry Meera. “I will not suffer a marriage forced upon me again, to neither Greyjoy nor Lannister, nor Frey, nor Arryn. None.”

Already standing, Sansa turned and left the solar without a pause or glance, someone called after her as she left, but Sansa stopped for no one as she sought out the solace of her own chambers. Before she could reach them however, a hand on her arm and a familiar voice stopped her.

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion was out of breath. “You must stop using my height against me.”

“When people stop using my womanhood against me, perhaps.”

“You must reign in your emotions, Lady.”

“I will not marry you again, Tyrion. I fear I will never agree to marry anyone now that I am assured of the Starks living on. I may choose to grow old all on my lonesome. Certainly not with anyone Daenerys chooses.”

“That is Queen Daenerys.”

“I have but one king, King Jon.”

“And is that the name you call him by in your bed?”

She slapped him then, her cheeks flushing as red as the cheek he held in pain. “Littlefinger bid me to marry the Bolton Bastard after Cersei and your father made me marry you. You were at least an honourable Lord Husband, seeking solace in your whore rather than taking me as a husband had his right to do.” His eyes fell down to the floor at the mention of Shae. “My Bolton husband had no such honour. What do you know of the Boltons?”

“They betrayed your brother, killed him and your lady mother. They like to flay people.”

“The Bastard liked a hunt. He would let his dogs starve until they were vicious, hungry beasts and then, after he had flayed a man a bit, removed a finger or toe or two, he would set the hounds upon him. Or her, for the hounds and the bastard cared not whether the prey had teats or a cock.” Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but Sansa held up her hand. “He could not be quite so lenient with his lady wife, of course. No, he could not send me to the hunt. What good would that do him? No, he was not able to flay me or remove a finger.” She wriggled her fingers in front of him, showing all ten digits remained. “He could not have anyone else see what he did to me, for fear of rebellion. I sometimes wondered if his father truly knew what sort of a son he had. I’m sure he would have sent me to the hunt in a few years, once he had what he needed of me - an heir, of course. What do you think a man who likes to remove a prisoner’s skin and hunt them like deer would do in his wife’s bed? Do you think that man capable of anything other than depravity? Love? Gentle caresses?”

She took a deep breath and then readied herself, for the lie she would tell herself. “Ask my brother, Jon, the truth of it and then ask me once more to marry someone.” With that she turned and began to walk away to hear a question from the Lord that caused her steps to falter a moment, but she shook it off and quickly made it to her chambers.

“Yet, would you marry your cousin?”

Leaning against the cool wood of the door, Sansa finally let her mask slip along with the silent tears. The doubt she felt in Jon, Sansa did not want that, but she had trusted too many people and been horribly burnt. She had trusted father, who had left her alone in King’s Landing, left her to the mercy of Lions. She had trusted the Lannisters, in Joffrey her prince, in Cersei the Queen that she emulated to become, and both had betrayed her – beating her in front of the court, using her for their own purposes. Then she had trusted Ser Dontos who, although she had been grateful at the time, had been working for Petyr. The trust she had for Petyr was all down to the fact that it had been he that had helped her escape King’s Landing and the lion’s den, but he had loved her mother too much. He loved the throne and an idea of power too much and he should never have had her trust. What if Daenerys did marry Jon to the Iron Islands, to keep him away from court without allies on land, but strengthen her alliance with Asha? What if then, to strengthen ties to the Vale, she forced a marriage upon Sansa, believing it to keep Petyr on her side? Would she be made to marry her sickly cousin, or his controller? Sansa knew that she could not trust Littlefinger, but that did not mean that the Dragon Queen knew any different and, if she did fear Jon’s claim, she would not be open to listening to his fears. Of course, Sansa doubted that Littlefinger would be as bad a husband as the bastard, but he would be more demanding than Tyrion. She had never distrusted the bastard, or his family as such, but she certainly had never put her trust in them. Theon and then Brienne were probably the first that had held her trust, followed by Jon, but that held no meaning. All three of them could betray her at any point.

If Jon still wanted to go back to the South with Daenerys, that was his choice made. Sansa nodded with determination and stopped crying. She would not be hurt again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's maybe 4 more chapters and an epilogue to come after this one. I see Sansa in this one as constantly thinking how life should be, how their society says it should be and she's, well, sick of it and refusing to be brought down by it anymore. However, she isn't in control and whilst she does love Jon, she doubts herself and him, and them, and worries about what could become of her again. She is not about to become someone else's pawn again, not to be sold to any random Lord or anyone in fact, not even if it could strengthen her home. She has Bran now, and his son, she does not need anything else and she will use her alliances (Riverrun, Eyrie) however she needs to (without selling herself) including taking them from Jon if he's gone to the Southern Side of the Force.
> 
> I don't want Show Sansa to sell out anything for herself, to betray Jon for Littlefinger's whispers or power or the Iron Throne. That isn't how I see her at this point in the show. But to fear for her self and home and take alliances away from Jon, I would approve, no matter how misguided they are. I just want Show Jon and Sansa to be a united front as cousins, lovers or siblings, I want them to be the rock that no one can come between!


	19. The Night War Came

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so we're seeing three point of view in this one - Jon, Tyrion and Bran. Apologies for bringing Tyrion and Bran in to it, but they're needed for the plot. Meanwhile, the first scene actually occurs after the 2nd, but it reads better the way I'm posting it! Enjoy!

As Jon mounted the dragon once more, this time to scout the area and assess where Daenerys needed to strike next on her journey to King’s Landing, he could not help but think back to the day, almost four moons earlier when he had mounted the dragon amongst the snows at Winterfell, saying goodbye to his home again. Each time that he left, he felt like it might be the last. When he had left for the Wall, he had only had a slither of hope that he would be able to visit just as his Uncle Benjen had. Then, when he had defeated Ramsay Bolton, taking back his home for her, he had dared to hope that he would never leave again. Foolish Northmen Lords had raised him up as the King in the North, following in his brother-cousin’s steps and he believed that meant that he would, overall remain at home. Of course there were still battles, as a King he would never shirk from his duties as a commander. Perhaps those in the South differed. Then he had left to find the Dragon Queen, seeking passage by sea to Dorne. That time he had paused often and wondered if he would ever see Winterfell again. There was always the chance of perishing before even locating his Aunt, let alone being allowed to live freely by her. But she had come to trust him. At least that was how he felt she considered him. Still, fighting alongside her did not mean that he would ever see Winterfell again. Every time he left, he worried about returning. That last time he had left, it had been the hardest. Jon could sense Sansa’s distrust in him. There seemed to be nothing he could do to make her trust him. Their goodbyes had been brief, she had refused to be alone with him after their meeting with Daenerys where Sansa herself had stormed out, refusing everything his Aunt spoke of. That night, the final night before he left, Jon had attempted to see her, going to her chambers only to find Brienne on guard; Pod usually had the night shift, he was always easy to slip past on the eve and the morning. He never questioned Jon even when he did see them.

“You had Brienne on guard last night.” He had spoken quietly in the yard as he waited to depart, knowing that Sansa was only present to make sure that Daenerys truly left. Her coldness towards him made him wonder if she also wanted to make sure that he left.

“How observant of you.”

“I tried to speak with you.”

“Then speak, your grace.” Finally she had met his eyes and he saw nothing in the blue of them. What words would make her trust him? An odd thought had occurred to him, would kissing her work? No, no matter how it might make her trust him, to most eyes around them he was her bastard brother. The Northmen Lords may have raised him to be their king, but they would not take kindly to him disgracing Ned’s daughter. Her gaze had faltered and a rueful smile crossed her face, his eyes following hers to Tyrion, standing with his Aunt. “You truly are to leave me with the Imp?”

“Que- Daenerys requested it,” he had amended at a look from her. “To lead her forces until such a time that she can join the battles in the North.” Her eyebrow had risen at him, arms crossed against her chest and looking, oh, so much like her lady mother had. Once Daenerys had a stable hold on the South, she would be able to send all of her armies further North, to help the true battle, but she refused to believe that the Dornish and Highgarden would ally with her further North when the Lannisters still sat the Iron Throne. He had come to believe it was not just her vanity that demanded the throne, it was for those that served her to continue serving her. He had to believe that otherwise his trust in her was foolish and would damn the entire realm. “She believes him to be fair in organizing the supplies she is sending.”

“Because Northmen cannot control their own food supplies?”

A smile had come to him then, genuine despite her coolness. “I have asked her for lemons.”

Her eyelids had blinked too rapidly, as if she were fighting something within herself. “Do not try and sweeten me, Jon Snow. Safe travels, your grace.” With those words she had walked away from him and he had not felt her eyes watching him from a distance as he mounted the dragon behind his Aunt. Sansa was as lost to him as a cousin as she had been a sister.

To complicate the matters in Winterfell, at the place he hoped to call home once again one day, his closest allies and friends had discovered the truth behind his relationship with Sansa. Sam had spoken with him, listening as Jon had asked his good friend to watch over Sansa. “I know you care a great deal for her,” the newly appointed Maester had said. “But I worry that I should return to the Wall. Am I not breaking my oath being here?”

“If Lady Stark no longer requires your services, you should return soon, yes. Unless you can serve the realm more good from here.”

“She is well after the childbirth and Gilly, well, she knows more about that sort of thing than I do though she is not a midwife. She helped birth enough of her sisters’ babes. She even knew how to find the ingredients for Moon tea.” Sam had blushed at that. “That particular herbal remedy was not a link to be forged.”

“Sansa came to see you then?” Jon had asked, his face falling when Sam had looked at him in confusion.

“One of the kitchen staff. Why would…? Oh.” Sam’s blush had deepened beyond that which Jon thought possible. “It’s good that you are both on good terms.”

“We’re not. Anymore.” Sam’s eyes had widened. “Not because we… not from anything that we did… She wanted…” Jon had never felt so uncomfortable. 

“I understand.” Jon still doubted that.

“She no longer trusts me. I think she fears the Targaryen in me.”

“Understandable,” Sam had agreed. “If she… loves you, perhaps, the Iron Throne awaits you.”

“I don’t want to be King of the North let alone the entire realm.” And then the conversation had worsened as suddenly Tormund had sat up from behind a pile of dirty linen that had been discarded in the corner of the training yard. The Wildling had rubbed at his head as if that could remove the sting of the drinking that had led to him passing out in the remnants of sweaty men after training hard.

“Seems to me,” Tormund had said with a gravelly voice. Jon was still unsure what revelries Tormund had joined in with that night. “That the solution is an easy one, Jon Snow.” The Wildling refused to name him King. “Steal yourself a new bride and fuck off with her. Fuck the dragon. Fuck your birthright and fuck the Night’s King. Just fuck who you want.”

“It’s not that easy,” Sam had interrupted. “We need men to fight the dead from beyond the Wall.”

“Have you forgotten, crow? There’s a Wall leagues high and long between them and us.”

“Aye,” Jon had agreed. “And winter is here, my friend. The coldness brings them or they bring the cold, whichever way, the Wall can be climbed, or have you forgotten? Difference is, your men died when they fell. They’ll just keep trying.”

“Or wait until the seas freeze and walk around it,” Sam had shrugged as Jon had stared at him in surprise, not having thought of that possibility.

“We need men. I must help the Queen.” _I must leave Sansa,_ he had thought.

“If Sansa distrusts you enough,” Sam had asked. “Could you lose the North?” No one had spoken it out loud, not even Daenerys or Tyrion had asked of the other alliances the North held, but Jon had thought about it. The Riverlands had only ever joined the rebellion with King Robb because the Tully’s were kin. They were not Jon’s kin, they were Sansa, Arya and Bran’s. Jon did not want to start a war with his cousins. Or between them. The Vale, that was trickier but also simpler in some ways. Whilst the Arryn boy was kin to all three Starks, he was but a puppet to Littlefinger who would side with Sansa over the other two. The Vale had the largest army, even when Daenerys had the Dornish, Highgarden and most of the Greyjoy fleet.

Four moons later and Jon still worried that Sansa would go back to Littlefinger, that every day would be the day that he received the raven telling him of that news.

Holding the reins tight and preparing to take off, Jon heard someone calling his name and then saw a young squire running towards him, waving a raven’s scroll in the air. Snatching it up, Jon noted the Stark seal upon the wax, his name scrawled next to it and then uncurled it. _“Winterfell,”_ it read, _“Requires some true snow.”_ It was signed by the Imp rather than any Stark within Winterfell’s walls and so, clutching the scroll and the reins, Jon Snow flew away from the Targaryen camp.

 

GOT – GOT – GOT 

Climbing up the last few steps, his little legs hurting as they frequently did, Tyrion paused for a moment at the sight in front of him and then gave a loud, theatrical cough to bring attention to his arrival. The Lady Sansa looked up from where she was positioned on all fours, scrubbing at the floor, her hair disheveled and looking far less the lady that he was used to. Even when she had awoken from a broken night’s sleep during their marriage, Sansa had never looked so tired and lowborn. Sitting back on her haunches, she inspected him and then gave him just a word of greeting.

“Tyrion.”

“Lady Sansa,” he responded. In the near four moons since he had been left behind in Winterfell, for he felt it was a left behind rather than a calling or choosing, she had warmed to him. She no longer blanked him with an icy face when they passed or held meetings together. Gone were the greetings of Imp that she had moved on to after the icy ones. Now, he was simply Tyrion. He wondered if he would ever earn greater respect from her, not that he considered himself a lord anymore as no matter what Daenerys promised with regards to Casterly Rock and the rest of his Lannister kin, Tyrion was not sure that he wanted to be given that keep, that title or that history.

“Pray tell,” he asked. “What brings the Lady of Winterfell to the rookery to clean the shit covered floors? Aye, there are fewer ravens now, but still they live here and will shit once more.”

She gave a laugh at his cuss and he smiled at that. Over the moons living within Winterfell’s walls Tyrion had learnt a great deal. Once such thing was that Sansa Lannister-Bolton-Stark, was not the Sansa that he had known in King’s Landing. Her time amongst Cersei and Littlefinger had taught her plenty about ruling, be it a kingdom or a keep, but there was too much Stark within her, Tully too, to become as depraved and power-hungry as any of her mentors. “You spill wine upon yourself, most nights unless my eyes deceive me, yet you wash and have clean clothes to wear the next night, sullying them yet again. Do you not?” She continued without an answer. “And I am not the Lady of Winterfell, that title falls to the Lady Meera now. I am merely Sansa.”

“There is no such thing.” Her eyes rolled at that as she stood back up, stumbling and struggling ever so slightly as she did so. “I know Winterfell lacks for handmaidens and serving staff, but surely there are others that could be doing the cleaning instead of your gracious self.”

“We each have a part to play.”

“Perhaps one of the Unsullied should play this part and you could concentrate on sewing new clothes for their impending trek North.” The contingent of army that Daenerys had left at Winterfell was leaving before the next full moon under the command of Tormund, to help man the Wall. He was eager to see it once more himself, but he knew that when the day came that he would be there it would be because the war had started and that was something Tyrion did not want.

“Needlework holds less satisfaction than it once did.”

“So you clean.”

She turned from him at this comment and after a long moment she asked, “What brings you up to the ravens today? More secret correspondence with your Queen?”

“Only as secret as your correspondence with your King.”

At his words she laughed a bitter laugh and walked steadily towards him and past, down the first step. “I have not had any.”

With their Maester having returned to the Wall, to assess their casualties but with hope that he would return soon, there was no one to tend to the ravens, but still Tyrion was aware of most of what came and went. Lady Brienne of Tarth had Pod overseeing the ravens that left Winterfell, but he was not always present when a raven arrived. Despite the lad’s new found loyalty to the Lady Knight, he sometimes would let slip information about the ravens when Tyrion asked him. There had been a raven from Jon soon after he had left, but Tyrion had never been able to gleam if its contents had been for Sansa or the Starks as a whole. Pod had been very unhelpful, or he had lacked the information, with regards to whether or not the cousins had been having personal communications.

Sansa continued on her way and Tyrion, once her footsteps had vanished into silence, took out the sealed scroll within his shirt and scanned the area again. There was a great risk in what he was about to do. Not just for forging the wax seal, having snuck in to private chambers and using the Stark seal and grey wax, but also if anyone discovered his message, least of all his Queen, but he could not bring her in to this matter, not yet. Something Sansa had once said about Daenerys knowing little about Westeros had stuck with him even with his loyalty stuck firmly with the Targaryen Queen and he would be damned if he allowed yet another damn fool to ruin the realm from the ugly throne.

The message was simple. It was a call for Jon Snow to return home. No matter how she fought it, Jon’s cousin needed his return before it was too late for the realm to be saved.

_Winterfell requires some true snow._

 

GOT – GOT – GOT 

Bran awoke with a start, his dreams had been… disturbing and yet they had already faded from his mind, such as it was ever since he had returned to South of the Wall. His powers were weaker here, or perhaps magic was draining from everywhere with the increase in the Wights and White Walkers. Even through the Weirwood network, Bran felt it harder and harder to slip into the past, to see the future. Had he scorned the Gods so that they removed his only remaining ability to aid his family, his kingdom and the realm? The room was dimly lit and it was then that he noticed that Meera was absent from their bed. It took but a moment to notice where she was sitting quietly in the chair nearby to the bed, nursing their babe who was close to turning four moons. It was still such a sight to behold, a sight that he had sometimes thought would never be possible. His injuries had occurred when he was still too young to want anything other than to be a knight. Fatherhood had never been a desire, or anything that truly even resembled a thought. Even after his injuries and the knowledge that he might not be able to put a babe in a woman’s stomach, it had never been more than a vague disappointment. Why would he mourn being a father when he had wanted to be a knight?

Until he had found himself being a father and he wished for nothing else ever again.

She opened her eyes then, noticing him sitting there and watching her. He smiled first and she sleepily returned the smile. Many times he had tried to convince her to remain in the bed for Jojon’s night feeds, but she refused, declaring it more comfortable in the chair.

Then the candles and lamps went out, plunging Bran and his family in to near darkness.

In the dim light, Bran watched as his breath fogged in front of him and his dream returned to him.

“They’re here.”


	20. The Night A Dragon Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the closest attempt at action that I write, hopefully it comes over okay.
> 
> Oh, and thanks for any comments, kudos, etc, I'm on holiday at the moment and don't have time to check them but have got the rest of this thing planned out - couple of chapters and an epilogue to go.

Bundled in behind the others in to the Stark family crypts, Tyrion’s eyes were already acclimatized to the darkness since all of the candles and flames had blown out with no breeze or wind to feel. He had still been up, drinking wine at his desk and poring over maps and parchments. The Unsullied that had already been sent to the Wall and beyond, to protect everything beneath the Wall, were not faring as well as they had in previous battles. It was the cold, of that Tyrion was sure and he was reluctant to send the next batch along with Tormund. He himself did not feel up to his usual levels unless he had enough ale or wine in his glass to warm him as much as the Sun at Casterly Rock would have done. He hated the cold. He hated winter and he did not enjoy the Starks much more than all that he hated.

So being in their crypts was equally as awful for him.

“Are you sure we need to be in here?” It was damp and dark, Tyrion could feel the ghosts of Stark past bearing down on him. Especially the newest ones.

“This is where we are safest,” Bran replied with a tone that sounded far wiser than his years.

There was a commotion at the doorway as Davos sealed it close, turning to face everyone else in the darkness. “We should go further in. This door will not hold for long.”

Tyrion could already imagine that those that helped their escape in to the crypts were already rising, joining their new brothers to bang on the door. It was worse than when he awoke from drinking too much wine. Why was there no wine kept in the crypts? The cold was creeping in, wine would warm him, he was sure. His time so far in the North had fared little better than the first time, the Starks were still insufferably far too honourable and kept to themselves far too much. No one within the household ever had any gossip for him, none were willing to betray their Lords and Ladies. But that had not stopped Tyrion from picking up on certain things. Before the potential prince had gone back to his Aunt, Tyrion had not been blind to the looks shared between two cousins. Theon had told him upon their first visit which room was which within the main keep and his suspicions had begun then, confirmed when he became more familiar with the keep. Jon Snow and his sister-cousin had been sharing chambers, although Tyrion had not watched the door all night so perhaps he was wrong. Until the lady had started acting oddly, then he knew he was correct. 

Their marriage had never been a happy one, never been a mutual one, but, still, despite the icy coolness with which his Stark bride had treated him, Tyrion had grown to know his lady wife, to care for her and she was not acting herself. She cleaned a lot, and barely slept. Her cheeks were always rosy red whether inside or outside. She barely ate at mealtimes, and was quick to anger at meetings. None of these things were due to her being in the North, being cold in winter, suffering rations and trying to rebuild Winterfell and herself after her abuse. She had taken a new maid for the last moon’s turn in to her personal confidence and always seemed to have the stranger by her side. No, there was something else at play. As he thought about her, Tyrion realized that he had not seen her enter the crypts.

“Where is Lady Sansa?” 

Ser Davos, Bran and Meera looked around, calling for Sansa and then Lady Brienne. The young lady that had become Sansa’s shadow suddenly appeared next to them all, brought by the commotion.

“She was not in her chambers,” she explained and Bran sighed heavily. “She has trouble sleeping.” The little slight thing turned suddenly and threw Davos at the door. “Open it!”

“My… I cannot.”

Bran had gone deathly silent and Tyrion thought his eyes to look odd in the darkness, oddly bright, but then they appeared normal once more. “Do not open the door, Ser.”

“Bran!” 

“Hold your tongue and keep your place,” he commanded to Sansa’s maid. “Trust me.”

Bran was not the only Stark to keep his secrets, Tyrion knew that the house was keeping a lot more from him, things that were probably of little importance given the wights and White Walkers attacking them so far below the Wall when all reports stated that they had not made it through the Wall. Had the Wall fallen? But then, Tyrion worried for Sansa being without the crypts, if his suspicions were in fact correct. At first he had believed her odd behavior to be that of a love sick lady, missing Jon Snow, but no ravens ever carried love notes from her. Of that he was sure. The day in the rookery had been his confirmation when his suspicions had travelled past her being a lovesick youth. She had been cleaning the floors, a pointless errand, and stood out of breath from such a simple action. The symptoms she displayed were so close to Cersei that he held no doubt of her true condition, hidden under her skirts and thick cloaks, behind heavy guards who shadowed her along with the young maid and Lady Brienne. So he had sent word to Jon.

He had felt a traitor for not sending word to Daenerys, too, but then he needed cold hard facts before he brought her in to this. If his suspicions were correct and she was still out side, a the mercy of the undead, Lady Brienne would be of little help, and that was far more grave a situation than simply losing Lady Stark, but also-.

A roar ripped through the night and everyone held their breath as Bran whispered. “Dragons.”

There was a great commotion outside, steel on steel, dragon roars and a wall of heat swept in through the gaps under the door until there was a deathly silence followed by three solid knocks.

“It’s Jon,” Bran nodded and Ser Davos unbolted and opened the door. Before there could be any greeting or thanks, the maid dashed past and out.

“Arya!” Meera called back. Arya? Tyrion had only met the youngest Stark sister a few times, but he knew her face well enough and he knew it well enough to know that the maid was not Arya Stark.

“Jon,” Bran said with urgency. “Sansa is not here. I believe she’s in the Godswood. You must hurry.”

Tyrion, and everyone behind him, stumbled out of the crypts as Jon ran off after the maid, the dragon, Rhaegal, was still flying around the castle, burning any remaining wights. All Tyrion could smell was roasted flesh and it turned his stomach, yet he still wanted wine. He had one simple thought that he voiced out loud. “Why and how, if they have yet to penetrate the Wall, have they come here? What is here that they want?”

GOT – GOT – GOT 

The sight before him had scared him more than anything he had ever witnessed on any battlefield before. Even the battle of the bastards, the battle for Winterfell itself. Perhaps it was because the sight he had seen was of Winterfell, his home, in the midst of a war that it had not asked for. In truth, it was the fear of the undead hording across the land, the land he had already seen littered with dead people after he fought for it, for her. For Sansa. The lady he had fought for Winterfell for, to get her safety returned to her and he had then left her there supposedly safe. Hardly safe, they were under attack by a worse foe than the Lannisters and Ironborn fleet under Euron Greyjoy. It was that knowledge that had fueled his fear, perhaps realizing in that moment that the moon lit up the scene beneath him that he truly realized his greatest fear; his fear for Sansa. Every night as he went to his tent, lying on the second most uncomfortable bed of his life, his heart yearned for her. His body would roll over to try and find some comfort on the hay-filled mattress and automatically seek her out to hold and to speak with. It was speaking with her that he truly missed, discussing their days, making plans for Winterfell and of course the inevitable disagreements that they frequently had, but always talked through. Her smile and her laugh, the look that she had when she thought no one was watching. He missed feeling her eyes on him as he trained in the yard, and how her lips would give the smallest smile when his eyes then met hers.

He and Rhaegal had come upon the army of blue eyed wights attacking the place he had left her safely. What if he had already been too late? As the thought had occurred to him, Rhaegal had roared fire as Jon tried his hardest to control it, to keep Winterfell itself safe. What if she already had the blue eyes of the others? Controlling Rhaegal, flying him as low as possible to the undead within Winterfell’s walls until he was satisfied that the fires of the undead was enough barrier to the crypts. Jon had dismounted Rhaegal still in mid flight, catching the floor with his feet and rolling twice before he came to stand, Longclaw drawn and felling a wight straight away. A loud bellow nearer the crypts had brought his attention and he had seen Tormund, two other Wildlings, battling the remaining others.

“To the fire!” Jon had yelled, as the four of them started pushing back any of the enemy still moving. “Keep the yard clear.” Tormund had nodded and Jon had knocked the crypt doors, believing it safe enough for a moment. As the door had opened a small bundle had pushed straight past him and through his own deep and loud breaths, Jon had heard Meera call out Arya’s name. He had thought she was still in the Riverlands, but he had no time to dwell on that, quickly following her through the fire and death to the Godswood, as Bran had said. Sansa had to be okay. She just had to be. Arya had a head start and she was faster, not already half way through a battle.

As the trees cleared, he heard the noise of fighting, which meant that someone was alive, but it also meant that there was an enemy here. It was an enemy that he should have been here to keep away from her. Still too far away, Jon saw Brienne deflect a hit, but then get caught on the chin, falling and rolling away. Her sword knocked away from her. His eyes quickly shot to the form huddled under the Weirwood, Sansa – she seemed unhurt. Then there was Arya, although something about her did not look quite right even in the dim light. She got pushed back immediately, crashing in to Sansa.

“Hey!” Jon shouted, trying to catch everyone’s attention. It caught Arya off guard and then she was knocked to the floor. Neither Arya nor Brienne were moving and Jon realized who was fighting them. It was the Night’s King himself, the undead King met his eyes for a moment before turning back to Sansa, an awful screeching noise filled the clearing, distracting Jon for a few moments. “Leave her be!”

The Night’s King turned and took a few steps towards Jon, a smile on his face as he raised an ice sword at Longclaw. They danced around, matching strokes until Jon stood closer to Sansa than the King, glancing at her, she nodded at him and relief filled him, but the King landed a back handed slap to his face, kicked him backwards. Jon stumbled into Sansa. Wiping the blood from his split lip, Jon placed the blood covered hand against the tree to steady himself and he stood back up, ready to face the King again. The King sliced forward, aiming for Jon, but caught Sansa across her shoulder. Her scream was next to his ear and he ran at the King, He caught him around the waist and they rolled together until Jon ended up over the undead ruler. Rising up Longclaw, he moved to bring the sword down, but Brienne’s shout made his attention falter.

“Lady Sansa!” she called before Jon was knocked to the floor by a freezing punch to the gut and then face.

“No!” Sansa called and the Night’s King paused, looking over at her and then back down to Jon, his bright blue eyes piercing Jon’s before his odd smile returned and he stood, withdrew and had vanished before Jon could sit let alone stand.

“I’ll get the Maester,” Brienne said, running off as Jon looked over at Sansa. Blood was dripping down her arm, onto the roots of the tree, but she seemed unharmed other than that. He crawled to kneel in front of her, offering his hands to help her to stand and she took them with a smile.

“Are you hurt?” he asked and she shook her head, wincing at the pain from her shoulder. “Why was he here with you?” It made no sense. Then the girl that had been called Arya rushed forward, pushing him out of the way.

“We need to get her inside. It’s too cold out here for them.”

“Them?” That was when he noticed. He knew her body dressed and undressed, he could see the swell of her tum despite her thick dress. Her eyes met his with an apology as the girl called Arya pulled her away and towards the warmth and safety of their home. It changed nothing. Sansa Stark was with child.


	21. The Wolf and Her Pack

Exhaustion was filling her, but Sansa could not sleep. Finally, after hours of Maester Sam, Brienne, Arya, Meera and even Gilly fussing over her, she had been left alone in an attempt to rest, but she knew that sleep would not come to her. Strange sleeping patterns had been more and more frequent in the four moons since she had been with child and everyone said that it was likely to become worse. It was why she could be found wandering the battlements, visiting the Godswood or even cleaning random rooms at the dead of night. She would sleep when she needed to and busy herself when sleep evaded her. After the events with the attack, Sansa knew that no one would let her out for a wander, but she also knew that sleep would not come.

She needed to find Jon and speak with him. Security would be tighter after the attack, but Sansa also hoped that the confusion from the attack would aid her escape. As her feet hit the floor a voice called out from the chair near the window. “Get back in to bed.”

“Jon. When did you…?”

“Sam gave you some mild milk of the poppy and you fell asleep. Not for long before you started tossing and turning, but you slept a short while.”

“I could have sworn the opposite.”

“Aye.”

Following his command, Sansa sat up in the bed, leaning back against her pillows as Jon leant forward in his seat, his face coming in to the light. There was dried blood across his blackened face and he was still wearing the clothes he must have flown in on. “You must be cold.”

“I was supposed to be flying Rhaegal in the South when a raven bid me North. A well timed Raven it would appear.”

“A raven?” Sansa controlled all news sent South to Jon, except for anything that Tyrion wished to send. Why would Tyrion call Jon home?

“The Imp believed that I was needed. It would appear he was correct.” His eyes darted down to her stomach and her hands immediately covered it as if in defense. Sansa did not miss his flinch. “Am I truly the last to know?”

“Whatever the Imp told you, he knows nothing. Only people I trust know.” Along with those that had been in her chambers after the attack only Tormund and Ser Davos knew. Davos had guessed after noticing her symptoms, almost before she herself had realized. One morning after she had excused herself from breaking their fast, Davos had found her on top of the battlements at the furthest point that she could not smell the fresh baked bread which turned her stomach for three moons. He had told her a story of his own lady wife who had borne him sons and how he always knew simply from a glow upon her skin. 

“A glow you have now, Lady Sansa,” he had said.

“Please, Ser, speak of it to no one.”

“I am the King’s Hand. Although the King should be told,” he had said as Sansa had stared at the pure white snow across the lands outside of Winterfell, the snow that Jon was named after and her child would be, too. “A father should know.” At those words, Sansa had started crying and Ser Davos, aware of those around them had simply held her hand.

“And you do not trust me?” Jon demanded, anger dripped from his body at her and she wanted to cry in reply.

“I do not trust ravens. I do not trust the south and I certainly do not trust dragons.”

“I am a dragon. You…” His head shook and she sat silently waiting for him. “That is… Am I… How many…?”

She could not let him continue stumbling on his words. “You promised me honesty and safety, Jon, at least provide me with one.”

His jaw clenched and he huffed out a breath. “Why did you not tell me you were with child?”

“I did not trust a raven.”

“You could have bid me return. You got Arya home.”

“Why would I have bid you return? And why would you have come? You had no issue with leaving us all to begin with.”

“I did not know you were with child!” His shout caused a knock at the door and Pod’s head appeared through the gap. A wave and nod from Sansa had him resuming his duties outside of her chambers.

“What does that have to do with you?”

“Do you deny it’s mine?”

“I will neither deny nor confirm.” His face fell; sadness fell over his features just as she hardened hers.

“Sansa,” he objected as if she were simply playing a game unfairly or being stubborn for no reason.

“If I were to admit it is yours, what would you do? Marry me just as Robb did with his Queen? Forsake the Kraken alliance the Dragon Queen wishes you to have? Start a war just as Robb did? Lose your crown and possibly more, as Robb did?” She paused for a breath. “Would you take my babe? Or would the dragon queen tear the babe from my breast, take it to the Iron Throne to live as her heir, to control the North?” His mouth moved as if to speak, but she continued over him. “If those are my options, I would chose a spinster life and the surname Snow. I would raise any children as a bastard cousin to Bran’s. It did you no harm Think about all of the players in this game, Jon, think of all of their moves and I shall remind you of mine. I hold Riverrun through Bran. Not you. Not her. I hold the Vale myself, not Bran, not you, not her. I bring them to your cause. If your Targaryen heritage were revealed, would the North follow you or the Lord of Winterfell?”

“You would go to Littlefinger?”

It was not how she had planned their conversation, but then, telling Jon the truth of her condition had been played out within her mind more times than she could count with more permutations than she could count. Along with everyone else’s input, Sansa had never decided on her own words. “I will do anything that I need to, but no, I would go to Robyn as his cousin.”

“Sansa,” he began but he seemed as lost as she felt inside. He had left her, siding with the dragons and the family that he sought out, but leaving her nonetheless when she had finally felt safe. The South scared her, more so than the death that the North and winter brought even after the Night’s King attack and the words she thought she heard inside her mind as he had stood before her. The warmth, the Iron Throne, Dragons and Lions, it all scared her far more than what the North held for her. If he had ties to the South, to the Dragon Queen who wanted the Iron Throne, Sansa could not trust him.

“Your grace, I have had a tiring night. Please leave me now.” He stood and then hesitated, his fingers twitched and her heart burned for those fingers to take her hand. She felt like a young girl again, a young girl dreaming of knights, princes and love and, desperately, she wanted to trust him and be held by him. She had trusted too many, been burnt and betrayed by them all except her parents and siblings, Sansa could not trust Jon, not yet. Before morning, Sansa had still not slept, sitting in the chair Jon had been seated in, and more tears fell as she heard Rhaegal flying Jon away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, one chapter left after this one and then an epilogue. Won't be long!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter and can understand Sansa's feelings of betrayal (obviously play the hormone card, too) and now, Jon's gone and left her again!


	22. The Last Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter before the epilogue, part of this scene, some of the dialogue, was something I thought of early on in the planning of this!
> 
> Again, super thanks for comments and super apologies for not getting around to them yet - desperately trying to finish this before season 7 starts and my brain is trying to write three separate Walking Dead stories at the same time!

The Last Dragon

With a boldness he did not feel, Jon walked in to the Queen’s tent and stood before her still dirty and blood stained from the attack on his home. Grey Worm nodded his head at him, Missandei seemed worried and Daenerys had an amused smile upon her face.

“King Jon,” she greeted with humour. “You flew away with my dragon.”

He opened his mouth to retort that Rhaegal seemed to prefer his new master, but held his tongue. “Your grace, I beg a private moment.” With a grace that Jon that only ever seen in her and Sansa, Daenerys nodded at the others who quickly and quietly left the tent.

“You have been in battle.”

“I apologise for my appearance, I came straight away to you.”

“We have heard nothing of a battle nearby. Where did you fly my dragon?”

“To Winterfell,” he admitted. “I am to be a father.” Sam, who Jon would never get accustomed to calling Maester, confirmed it after Jon had left Sansa’s chambers, seeking Sam out immediately. In the warmth of the South, Jon was still unsure if he had gone to his old friend to catch him in a lie or simply gain some answers, but he had got the truth anyway.

“I knew you’d come,” Sam had said as he closed the book he had been reading, motioning to remain quiet as Gilly was asleep nearby.

“Sam, when I left…” Things had not been as complicated when he had left, but he had hurt her. Was this all her revenge? Instead he had simply said. “She told me she would take Moon Tea.”

“I was not asked. Nor Gilly. She could have gone to any Wildling woman.”

“Clearly she did not.” Even now, hours later and a dragon ride away, Jon’s mind was still too clouded to know if he was disappointed or overjoyed that she had not taken moon tea.

“Clearly not.” Jon’s eyes had met his friends at that confirmation, not that he had truly needed confirmation. The moment he had seen her belly, realized that she was with child, Jon had known that he was the father. There really had been no doubt in his mind.

“She refuses to name me father. She asked what I would do if she confirmed it, asked if I would propose marriage. She seemed upset at that thought. Sam, I grew up a Snow and I would not wish that on anyone.”

“Jon, I speak as your friend, as your brother and not to my King. The lady is… she is scared. As near as I can tell, you laid with her and then flew away. On a dragon. To a dragon who’s father killed her grandfather. She has been handed over for her maidenhead, her name from wolf to lion to flayed man. She fears those lions and she fears the dragons that killed her family and took you from her.”

“I went to fight the damn lions and krakens to keep her safe so that I could return to her and…” At that time, Jon had truly been unsure what he had wished to return to; on that matter the dragon ride had cleared his mind.

“The King in the North made her feel safe,” Gilly had said from the doorway. “The King who kneels to a Dragon doesn’t, your grace. The Queen could demand a marriage of her, to keep the North safe and what Lord would take her now with a bastard in her belly.”

“And then her babbles of the Night’s King,” Sam had said, explaining further to Jon’s furrowed brow. “She says,” he had doubted, “that she heard a voice within her head when she was standing before the Night’s King.” Jon had heard a loud, terrifying screeching noise that had almost buckled his knees. 

“What did he say?”

“You can’t believe her, Jon,” Sam had argued. “Lady Sansa is exhausted, the babes barely let her sleep, her back aches, her hips hurt and she is paranoid about the South claiming her unborn babes. It is merely a delusion, he did not speak to her of an offering. It is merely her motherly fear of losing her babes, common in women.”

“Babes?” he had asked. “She carries more than one?” Sam had nodded weakly and Jon had left a moment or two later, barely even stopping for a word with Tyrion or Tormund other than giving them a quick thanks before he mounted Rhaegal and flew away, leaving the burning wights and dead behind him.

“Good news?” Daenerys asked.

“The mother is aware of my Targaryen heritage,” he answered. “She is refusing to acknowledge me.”

“And what do you wish to do?”

The clarity the dragon ride had brought him forced him to speak the truth. “I wish to marry her.” Truly he did. “Your grace, the Kraken Queen holds no love for I at all, another match will suit and I doubt she will take offence. The Greyjoys owe my family and I could, I would,” he corrected, “take her brother’s life.”

She seemed to consider this for a moment, like she had at first concerning his ideas in battle planning. Quickly Daenerys had come to trust his strategy, he could only hope that she saw his worth now, too. “Will the mother marry you, then acknowledge you as the father?”

“If I can guarantee the safety of her and all of her children in the future.” He was not yet willing to reveal that he was to be the father of twins, because he did fear what Sansa had put in his mind. If Daenerys were as barren as she believed from a witch’s curse, perhaps she would seek his own heir.

“From?” For the first time in their conversation, Daenerys looked genuinely curious.

“From you.”

“Me?” she laughed. He did not and she quickly composed herself.

“Your grace,” he began calmly for he knew that he was about to threaten the most powerful person in the seven kingdoms. “We have already discussed that, when spring arrives and the threat from beyond the Wall has passed, we will rule peacefully, together, that you will allow the North to remain as a separate Kingdom.”

“With you revealed as a true Targaryen, yes. With no claim to the Iron Throne.”

“I need your word that you will not seek my heir. Or any future.”

“Dearest nephew, I have already told you that I am barren, I will not bear a living child. My dragons are all that will call me mother.” And the slaves, Jon thought. “What good is a throne with no legacy to continue it?”

“Perhaps you should have thought that before you came back to Westeros to claim it?” Her face hardened and he continued. “I have more power over the Riverlands and the Vale. I hold the North.” Although there was doubt he would hold any of that if his true parentage were revealed, the outcome would be the same. “If I wed as a Targaryen and you come for my child, there will be war. If I do not wed, there will be no trueborn heir. Either way, the Targaryens are dead after you. I would rather raise a Snow than have a child taken.” There was nothing she could threaten him back with, he had to believe that. 

“I could simply take the child, whether you married or not. When I sit the Iron Throne I can legitimize anyone I see fit as long as I believe the bloodline is pure.”

“And you would have war.”

“With whoever survives the Long Night that is coming?”

“With whoever remains in your realm because as much suffering the North already has from winter, we were born and raised in it. We are what will survive, not those from the South and certainly not those raised across the Narrow Sea.”

Settling back in to her cushions, Daenerys looked angry and serene at the same time. “You fly off with my dragon and return to give me threats and ultimatums. You could have simply remained wherever you flew off to.”

“I do not wish to threaten you, your grace. Aunt, I want a peace with you. I grew up with a father that kept me at arms length and no mother to speak of, siblings who mostly loved me and tried to welcome me, but I never truly had a family or home that I could be myself in. My true mother died in the birthing bed, my true father fighting off a rebellion rather than being by my mother’s side and then mine. I… I do not want that for my love, for her unborn. If my father had survived, kept me in the South then things would be different, but I am of the North, as my children will be.”

There was a long silence as Daenerys seemed to carefully consider his words and then she finally spoke, Jon finally felt calmer. “I hope she says yes, Jon. You have my permission to seek a hand in marriage for love, it would appear. Whether they hold the Targaryen name or not, I will not seek them, or you, out, but the realm may have different ideas come spring. Or the next winter.”

“Aye, your grace. Thank you.” He turned to leave, finally ready to clean himself from the battle before he would make a final request of Daenerys.

“Oh, and, Jon,” she called back and he hesitated in the entrance to her tent. “Just so you are aware, I would have always been agreeable to a marriage between yourself and House Stark, as it should have been for your mother and father. You need only have asked.”

GOT – GOT – GOT 

With a heavy sigh, Sansa sat down on the large chair in the solar as she tried to focus her mind on the papers in front of her. The sudden attack on Winterfell, whilst worrying and confusing from Sansa’s point of view was also something she could do little about. The battlements were as manned as they could be and, although many warriors had been sent further North, there were still a significant number guarding Winterfell. All of the flame flickering out when they approached was what troubled Sansa the greatest as there was nothing that could be done to stop that. Instead she was trying to focus on the ledgers of food and drink supplies, recently boosted by the Greyjoy fleet bringing more aid from the dragons.

She should never have gone wondering on her own, she knew that, yet she still did it every night when sleep evaded her. The Weirwood was the only place that she felt at peace and able to ignore all of her worries. Would Jon return come spring? Could she really raise bastard twins and keep them safe from the South? Would things have been different if Jon had never left? Constantly she tried to focus on the simpler worries of defence, strategy and feeding everyone in Winter Town and Winterfell, but more often than not all of her personal worries consumed her until she was seated at the roots of the Weirwood. There, enveloped by the Old Gods her father had cherished so much, Sansa knew that everything would work itself out. She was a Stark of Winterfell and her children would be the same. They would be the direwolves along with Jojon and they would strengthen come spring, waiting for the next winter.

It had been her desire for safety from her family, the Old Gods, that had caused Sansa to send word to Riverrun and the Twins, a hidden message bidding Arya to return home. Only a moon ago Arya had appeared in Sansa’s chambers similar to the first time, finding the elder sister in bed asleep. Sansa had awoken to find her younger sister curled asleep next to her.

“You came,” Sansa had whispered.

Arya’s eyes had blinked open. “Aye,” she had responded sarcastically and drowsy. “Despite knowing there’s a lion under the same roof. It best be important.”

Sansa had not yet been aware that two babes grew in her belly, but she had known she was three moons pregnant with Jon’s seed, yet she had told no one. Gilly had already discovered after hearing the retching, seeing the slight swelling around her middle, but Sansa had never said the words out loud: “I’m with child,” she had finally said, feeling a huge burden lift.

Arya’s eyes had widened fully and suddenly the elder Stark had felt scared. They had parted on far better terms, but Arya had still not been keen on Sansa’s developing feelings for their cousin. She would always seem him as her brother, a role that Sansa had barely ever fitted him in to. “I am to be an Aunt twice over. That is good news.” Her voice had sounded rather impassive to Sansa’s own ears. “When does my brother return?”

“He is unaware.”

“Sansa,” she had warned. 

“He has lost my trust,” Sansa had whispered. “He travels with the Dragon Queen as nothing more than a bastard son of Eddard Stark, a lie.”

“And you have your Lannister Husband slumbering nearby.” Sansa had grumbled and risen from the bed after that comment.

“Because your brother demanded it.” Even now, Sansa tended to refuse to refer to Jon as anyone’s brother, it hurt too much, but in that moment she had needed to fuel distrust and hatred. Anyone else would blame it on her condition. They had talked more before Sansa finally felt well enough to break her fast and that was when Arya had revealed the first glimmer of what her years away from Winterfell had held for her.

“Please,” Arya had begged. “Do not be scared or ask anything of it, but if you want me to remain, which I gladly will to keep you and your babe safe, then I cannot allow the Lannisters to know.”

“How will you do that?” _And will you protect me from Jon himself?_

With a simple turn, Arya had looked up at her with the same eyes, but a very different face, which had removed Sansa’s appetite.

She should have woken the masked Arya and taken her to the Weirwood, perhaps then the Night’s King would not have got as close as he had. He had touched her. Sansa had felt a coldness that even her Stark blood had felt and she was sure that the King had spoken to her no matter what Maester Sam had said. The Night’s King had demanded an offering from her belly. Gilly was sure that her own father would offer up any of his sons as an offering to the White Walkers, confirming Sansa’s thoughts, but Maester Sam was still refusing the possibility. A gentle knock on the door broke Sansa from her thoughts as the door opened without her granting permission. Jon closed the door behind him and walked towards her.

Feigning attention on the papers with a cool voice, Sansa said, “Oh, you’ve returned.”

“Aye. I have two days to prepare a mission to find the Night’s King. I fly North. As far as I need to go. We will not wait for them to come to the Wall again.”

“Why now?” she asked trying to keep a distracted air, as if she had no care for him and his words.

“No one threatens my children.”

“I never told you-” He put his hand up and continued.

“That I am the father or that you carry two in there? I am not dumb.”

“Apologies your grace,” she said as she started to stand. There was an unease beginning in her tummy, one that she was growing more and more accustomed to as the days passed, but one that was still painful nonetheless. Standing seemed to ease the pain.

“Stop with the airs and graces, Sansa.” She winced then, a hand shooting to her belly as the other steadied her against the table. All she needed to do was breathe through it, easier said than done when her entire body felt rigid and harder than the floor at her feet. “Sansa?” Jon was at her side within moments, his large and warm hand next to hers upon her slight bump without a request. “Shall I call for the Maester?” His voice and eyes were thick with concern as she looked in to their shining grey. Whilst one part of her hated to see the worry and fear she had put him in, she was also warmed with the love and care she saw and felt.

“It’s nothing.” She breathed slowly, inhaling through her nose. “It will pass.” As if on command, her stomach softened and Jon’s eyebrows perked up. “Gilly says they are simply false tightenings. A body’s way of preparing for the birth. Normally they are not felt so early in a first, but she believes maybe because there are two in there. Two tend to come earlier than one.”

His eyes were still locked on hers as he said, “I fly North to deal with the Northern threat to our children.”

A slight smile crossed her face as she heard him call them theirs and she moved her hand to cover his on her belly, in case he saw fit to move away, an image called to mind when she they had stood as this before, when she had foreseen his hand covering hers on her belly, swollen with child. She dipped her eyes from his. “And the Southron?”

His answer scared her.

“Daenerys wants no claim on our children.” She laughed at that. “And Asha, well, she seeks the company of whores more than Tyrion and truly will not care.”

“If Daenerys truly cannot bear children, she will want mine – the last blood of the Dragon.” A night or two after Arya had arrived home, Sansa had still not spoken of her condition other than to Arya and Gilly, both of whom were now her handmaidens, only Meera had been aware of the truth of Arya after Bran had seen straight through her disguise and told his wife so, when she had suffered a night terror worse than any she could remember in the moons after freeing herself from Bolton hands. Brienne had been the one to burst in at Sansa’s screams, as she had thrashed about in the bed. Upon awakening, Sansa had declared that no one was going to take her babe, and Brienne had known the truth, quickly counseling Sansa in to finally telling Maester Sam, Ser Davos and Bran and Meera themselves. Of course, then Bran had declared that he already knew and that Sam had better check the number of heartbeats as Sansa was carrying a litter of direwolves.

The dream had become a recurring one, plaguing her thoughts in the few hours of daylight Winter afforded them. Daenerys learnt of Sansa’s pregnancy, flying North to help the Northern lady as the moons passed. Then Jon would return from his battles, flying the Targaryen banner just as Sansa needed the birthing bed. He would be the first to visit and hold their babe, a look of joy and pure happiness on his face. Gratitude and promises were on his lips as Daenerys would move to his side, offering her own thanks to which Sansa would look confused. “What are you thanking me for?” Sansa would ask each time no matter how she knew the dream to play out.

“For gifting my husband with such a precious babe.” Daenerys and Jon would embrace and leave Sansa alone with nothing.

In the harsh grey light of day, Sansa knew that Jon would not be party to such a thing, unless the moons away from her had truly changed his heart, but she could not trust the dragon queen.

“No one will know that they have dragon blood,” he promised and she looked at him curiously. “Truthfully, I do not know what the spring holds, but there are castles with no Lords, Ladies with no Lords. The battle for the Iron Throne that Daenerys is so preoccupied with means nothing. Fighting to be alive come spring – that is the battle that matters and those left when that time comes, should care little for dragons or the South. I do know,” he said sadly. “That you and I cannot remain at Winterfell.” She bristled away slightly at that, but he kept his hand firmly on her tummy. “It has a Lord and heir. Your claim on Riverrun comes after Lord Edmure, his babe and then Bran.”

“You promised me I would never have to leave Winterfell.”

“Before Bran returned. I allowed the North to crown me as King in the North, not as Lord of Winterfell. We could have stayed here and raised our children if Bran had not returned, or if he chose to seek out Greywater Watch. You were always meant to grow up and marry a Lord, live in his castle.”

She opened her mouth to object but he stopped her with a finger to her lips.

“When spring is here, I will find a castle and take you as my wife. In the North. I promise you, in the North. Daenerys has agreed to accept my bloodline and not charge me as her heir.”

“And if she changes her mind?”

“Then I will bring down the full force of the North, Riverrun, Vale and everything in between.” There was an earnestness in his eyes that she felt hard pressed to ignore.

“And I must marry you to be granted this safety?” She already knew his answer.

“No. You will receive my protection until the day I die. If you truly do not want to acknowledge me as your lover, your babes’ father then you do not have to. I will still be it.”

“Then… what?”

“Gods, Sansa!” he despaired. “Sometimes you infuriate me so.” A wicked smile fell upon her lips then and he shook his head with his own smile in reply. His hand was still on her belly, his free hand moved to her cheek and she relaxed in to his hold. “Sansa, marry me.”

“For pity?” she whispered. “For honour? Because Father or Robb would? For our babes?”

“No,” he shook his head and kissed her lips gently. “Because I love you and whatever spring holds, I want you by my side.”

A reassuring joy filled her then and she reached up to kiss him, blissfully ignoring the winter that was stretching before them. Jon Snow was her home and he would be with her and their babes, he would keep them all safe.


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Character Death, stillbirth, the Long Night starts and ends, it's bloody.

**5 Moons Later.**

All around her she felt her pain quickly give way to numbness that was all consuming, everything was slipping from her, right through her fingertips like the ice that was melting all around her. This was it, she knew it. This was the end. Her end. She had been so close, happiness had been within her reach, but it was not to be. There would be no happily ever after for her. There was one word on her lips, her voice just a whisper and no one heard it. A final surge bolted through her and she slammed her fist down screaming her final word.

And it was done.

_The arrow tore through him almost severing his limb. He tried to protect it, to fight and guard himself, worrying more for his life than the dangling arm. He had to return to Winterfell. He could feel something pulling him, two things in opposite directions. A brother in the South, a cousin even further South. They both needed him. Their lives were fading. So was his, but he knew he could hold on. He just had to win this fight and end it all once and for all. That was all that he had to do. One fight, after everything he had achieved, every fight he had won before. One. Last. Fight._

_Then the sword went through him. An ear splitting growl echoed on the wind. Was it his? His body grew heavy, but he fought to stand, to finish it and return home._

_One last duty to fulfill. He swung Longclaw, sliced it down._

_And it was done._

The pain tore through her, from the bottom of her swollen, hard belly to the top, from her back and all around. With each pain her world disappeared. There was only blackness, only silence as nothing remained but pain. Only pain. Every pain. The time in between was decreasing, the time of voices, colours, movement and touches.

“You’re doing so well!”

A shoulder squeeze.

“I’m so proud of you.”

Hands rubbing her lower back.

“You’re almost ready.”

A hand between her thighs.

“He would be, too. So proud.”

Swiping at her brow, cooling her.

“Should,” a nervous hesitation. “Should there be that much blood?”

Fingers interlocked with hers, squeezing reassurance in to her.

“And Mother. And Father.”

Looking down, her world swam in redness, smelt of metal.

“There,” a whispered, pained voice. “There’s too much blood.”

A scream pierced the air. An ear splitting wail and then silence.

Her eyes closed.

And it was done.

_It was all over for him now, the time had come for the future to begin. He would have his dragon queen. His bright blue orbs closed as hers opened._

GOT – GOT – GOT 

The battle for the long night had been raging for over a moon. The Wights and White Walkers had launched their final assault on the Wall four moons after Jon Snow had flown past the giant barrier, heading past the gathering horde. They had clearly been congregating, readying for an attack and waiting just beyond a day’s ride from Castle Black. No ranging party would venture that far out with such a lack of daylight. The sun had set one day, a cloudless almost pretty day and then the Wights had run at the Wall. So began the Long Night, though the moon still journeyed across the sky, shrinking and growing, waxing and waning at its usual pace.

Within a day, night had begun to fall across the entire realm. Not even a week had passed before Daenerys had left her forces in the South, with orders to protect as many lives as possible within the nearest stronghold, flying Drogon beside Viserion first to Winterfell and then to the Wall. And then beyond. None in Winterfell had welcomed her; no one in the North that had seen her had thought much of another dragon. After the Mad King, their own King had flown away on dragon-back and they feared him dead already, they had no need for dragons. Except beyond the Wall they did. Despite the hot springs and last supplies shipped in, everyone within Winterfell’s walls grew colder and hungrier by the day. The Starks and their people grew thin and pale, all except Sansa who continued to grow large withchild as the twins within seemed to thrive on the cold.

The first mistake the Dragon Queen made during the Long Night was giving her dragons the _dracarys_ order upon the horde too close to the wall, melting it lower. Pulling them away, the damage had been done as burning wights smoldered and drowned, refreezing as quickly as the dragon fire had acted, forging an uneven slope. Viserion had landed, breathing fire out across the horde and keeping them from escaping south, almost perfectly camouflaged against the white snow and ice. It helped little as the magic was broken. Though the Wall stood, enough had washed away to end the magic and, in the lands below the Wall, the dead began to rise again. All across Westeros they rose, all the way down to King’s Landing where the Iron Throne held no royalty, to the heavily protected Vale that was unsafe now, Highgarden where no flower grew through the snow. Even dragon fire perished quickly, dying as quick as the cold could claim life for the Night’s King.

The Night’s King had finally been hunted across the North, barely guarded after Rhaegal burnt his way further North than Jon Snow had ever been before. They remained airborne, maintaining the physical higher ground until a spear, thrown by a wight, shredded Rhaegal’s wing, almost severing it. The dragon, Jon’s mind within it, barely made it to the snow safely, allowing Jon to fight his way to the Night’s King with only Longclaw for aid.

As one dragon fell wounded, but still with a beating heart, another rose from a white death. Viserion’s heart splintered on a tree as he fell mid-flight, engulfed by the undead as it joined them in their living death. Ice flowing in his veins, Viserion flew higher than before, welcoming the cold the altitude brought. Daenerys tried to follow on Drogon, the biggest and strongest of all of her dragons, in a hopeless attempt to reclaim Viserion to fire. Instead Viserion breathed his white fire down on to Drogon.

There were Wights at the gates to Winterfell, battering and hammering at the Walls, the new gates built after Wun Wun had ploughed in the originals. There was little the men and women within Winterfell could do; fire arrows extinguished before reaching their mark and oil barrels risked the gates. Inside her chambers, Sansa labored, kneeling on all fours, her teeth gritted as she heard the calls of men outside and the empty platitudes of her friends and kin. Meera would rather be on the battlements, instead trapped in a stifling room and rubbing her good-sister’s back as Arya spoke in to her sister’s ear. Pain tore through her body so Sansa left it. Just as she had when Bolton had been within her, Sansa flew away to the North.

Viserion swooped down suddenly, no one saw his approach, his speed was so great. He flew at his brother and mother, fierce and strong, sending all three of them plummeting to the snow beneath. The dragons, both hurt now, lunged at each other, teeth biting and nails clawing until the blood of Drogon stained the snow along with his mother’s. Her eyes met his across the snow. The wights were stampeding, running at them and Daenerys whispered her command: _“Dracarys.”_

The Night’s King swung at Jon, catching his shoulder and drawing blood. Jon stood, a few paces from his foe, breathing heavy as the Night’s King slowly approached, believing the dragon-wolf to be at an end. Blood dripped down from Jon’s fingertips, freezing on the snow in perfect teardrop shapes. With ease, the Night’s King swung at Jon who parried and drew his own sword up above his head, yelling at the pain and exertion. Slamming his hands down, Longclaw sliced straight through the neck of the Night’s King, cleanly severing it.

The grey-white blanket soaked up the blood as Gilly said what the other’s feared. “There’s too much blood.” The first babe came forth, a boy with dark curls and wide blue eyes who wailed once and then went silent, observing around as if awaiting his twin. A scream filled Winterfell as the second babe was born.

“Friend,” Jon said to his dragon. “Take me home.” Every movement was agony for both man and beast, but it was done.

Her whisper was swallowed by the wind. Death was imminent; both hers and his. With every fiber of her being, Daenerys slammed her fist to the snow beneath her and yelled her final command. _“DRACARYS!”_ The dragon used his last breath to set his mother, the Wights, the White Walkers aflame.

Collapsing back on to the floor, Sansa welcomed the rest, her body mostly absent of pain as a babe was handed to her. “Your son.”

The bleeding had stopped with the afterbirth, leaving the lady pale and near exhaustion, but it did not stop her looking to the silent bundle her sister held tightly, hope on her face. Arya shook her head, squeezing closed her eyes to not see her sister or niece. A tear fell from Sansa to her son’s head.

Rhaegal landed amongst the dead, unmoving bodies of the wights that lay around Winterfell. Stumbling and rolling from the beast’s back, Jon only paused a moment as he knew that his dragon was gone, having given his life to get Jon home. A gentle pat on his scaly snout and the lone man walked through a still air to Winterfell’s gates. The snow had stopped, the winds died as the Night King’s eyes lost their brightness, as the final dragon perished. Within Winterfell, Jon cared little for the dirt he was caked in, the frozen sweat in his hair and beard or the blood dried and hard along the length of his arm, his fingers as it all crumbled off, showing his route to Sansa’s chambers. The chambers that could be his.

The stifling hot chambers had quieted some since Sansa’s pain had ended. The babe was already nursing, his mother’s eyes downcast upon him when the father found them, still on the floor. The room was almost as bloody as a battlefield, though no smell of dirt and steel was present. He fell to her side on his knees, cupping her wet cheek with his injured hand, his sword hand, the honorable hand gently stroked the babe who paid no attention.

“A son,” she whispered oddly sounding morose. “I’ve given you a son.”

“Given us a son, Sansa.” She met his eyes at his correction. “It’s done. Their leader is gone. The Wights all lay dead once more. I saw…” He bowed his head and marveled at the innocent pink babe in her arms. “A great fire. It was the dragons. It was Daenerys. They’ve all gone. But we,” he kissed her forehead fiercely. “Are here and safe now.”

“Jon,” she whispered through tears. “The second… the babe…” Her face scrunched up and he looked across the room to where Arya sat, holding a silent swaddled bundle and she shook her head sadly. He looked confused until Arya spoke.

“She had your eyes. Grey as a Stark. Her hair though…” Arya hiccupped. “Wispy white.” Where the boy at Sansa’s breast had the Stark and Tully look, the girl had the Stark and Targaryen. Perhaps she had been the final chance for a dragon to live. After over a whole moon’s turn, the sun finally arose, ending the Long Night and heralding a new peace over the tortured realm. The female babe who never drew breath was laid to rest amongst the Weirwoods by an unknown Wildling when none of the Starks could face it.

When the surviving and thriving babe was three moons old, his mother and father wed in front of the heart tree his sister had been laid to rest on, the heart tree his mother, now Queen of the North, had bled on, the tree his father had bled on the roots of for the Night’s King. Her Stark-Tully blood and his Stark-Targaryen babes had been all the offering the Old Gods had needed of the Night’s King.

The Long Night would come again, when the Night’s Queen was strong enough and full grown. Winter would come again and it would rain down fire, blood and snow on the realm.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prologue is a bit different and hopefully read okay – it was the ending that I knew had to happen (the new Night’s Queen being the female twin), but I really struggled with even considering writing it as the rest of the story and show any character deal with essentially a stillborn baby. But I couldn’t change the ending and couldn’t write it how the story voice dictated so, instead, I opted for an epilogue where a lot of 3/4 narratives are happening at the same time. I almost feel like the epilogue could be expanded on itself to make a standalone, but it was the only way I could end Honesty.
> 
> My first piece of fiction on this site is now complete and I have had such an amazing welcome, thank you to everyone who has read this and left kudos or comments. Huge kisses!


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